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.

Mike's on a Train

This one had a LOT of potential . . . and I shall not give up on it! But it's still a rough draft, and only a hint of what I wanted to do with it. Note my philosophical ramblings blended with a shameless Kenny Rogers reference.






The sun poured in from outside, and Michael was bathed in a harsh glow that jerked him awake. He pulled himself upright and stared out the boxcar window, his mind and eyes wandering over the scrolling landscape before him. The sun was lounging lazily in the sky, its rippling limbs stretching across the horizon. Mike squinted and looked away. He counted the cactuses that went by. The green blobs blended with the sand.
As Mike began to doze, a realization slowly surfaced in his mind: he had no idea where this train was going or why he was on it. He considered this calmly at first; then with concern. He checked his ticket. Then he realized he hadn’t bought one – he was holding a stick of gum. Spearmint gum. He sat down to gather his thoughts. He couldn’t be alone on the train, right? Right?
Mike tore open his cabin door and launched into the hall, barely evading a particularly nimble steward on his way toward the dining car. There he encountered a scene of relative tranquility; the other passengers were quietly sipping their tea and eating.
“Where is this train going?” Mike screamed. A few passengers looked at him, mostly startled by his volume, and resumed ignoring him. Mike coughed and adjusted his glasses. He decided it would be best to take a seat at one of the tables, but ignored his impulses to select an empty one. Mike sat at table three with an elegant couple, already well committed to their meal. This in no way impeded Mike’s attempts at conversation.
“My name is Mike. How are you?”
The gentleman was feeling a bit bloated, but was otherwise quite well, despite his obvious head injury. The lady was preoccupied with a sucking chest wound.
“Would you happen to know where this train is going? Or where it is?”
The gentleman did know. The train was bound for Sacramento, and it was currently in Nevada. The woman also knew. The train was bound for California, and was somewhere near Vegas. An argument erupted over who was correct, and the result was a fairly nasty breakup and Mike getting a phone number. Mike got up headed back towards his cabin, noticing on the way that it was snowing outside. He stood in front of the window and watched the snow. A sailor stood next to him.
“Hey. Do you know where this train is going?”
“Where indeed?”
The sailor pulled a gun from his jacket and shot himself. Mike stole his shoes. They fit rather well, and that comforted him.
“You seem rather lost,” a voice observed. Mike turned to find it was an observer voicing. It was a slight man with coke-bottle lenses.
“I am lost,” Mike confessed. “I don’t know where this train is going.”
“I designed this train. Do you like it?” Mike hadn’t thought about liking it. He supposed he did.
“I suppose I do. But where is it going?”
“I have no idea. I’m just enjoying the ride.”
Mike frowned.
“Well, where’s the conductor? You know, the engineer?”
“There is no engineer,” said the engineer. “This train is fully automated. I designed it myself.”
Mike sighed and sat down. Outside, the leaves were falling. Slowly at first, then all at once, blending into a smooth, papery flame. Mike watched, hypnotized, not noticing a sailor with a shoe on his head. He eventually got nauseous and passed out. When he came to, he was surrounded by luggage. In fact, he was reclining on a briefcase. The sound of clicking plastic called his attention to the old man in the corner, shuffling a deck of cards.
“You don’t look so good,” said the gambler. “It’s written all over your face.”
“I just want to know where this train is going! And why I’m on it! And how I can get off!”
The gambler considered him slowly.
“Maybe I can help you. Got any whisky?”
“No.”
The gambler frowned.
“Oh. Tough luck, then. Find your own ride.” And he tossed Mike a bicycle. It was the King of Hearts. The gambler was gone. Mike slipped the card into his pocket and strolled back into the hall. The walls hugged him tightly while the floor rolled beneath him. The air became heavy and thick. He ran for a window, the nearest being inside his shoebox of a room. Was it his luggage inside? He opened a case to see what he packed. All he found was a toothbrush.
Abandoning his quarters, Mike resolutely marched to the back of the train. The hallway seemed endless, each car connecting to another car, each car filled with random passengers that didn’t seem to fit. It felt like hours passed while Mike walked, but eventually he reached a door. He firmly gripped its handle and began to pull.
“Whoa!” cried a passenger. “Don’t go out there! That’s the end of the train!”
“Do it!” spewed a sailor.
Mike’s mind was already made up. He was going to get out of this train if he had to jump off. With a deep breath and a firm pull, Mike pulled open the door and walked outside.
The sun poured in from outside, and Michael was bathed in a harsh glow that jerked him awake. He pulled himself upright and looked out the cabin window, his mind and eyes wandering through the passing clouds. The ground below rolled by slowly, visible only through small patches in the smoky screen above it. Mike squinted to see the details below, searching the manmade blemishes for familiar shapes. Patches of color blended on a flat canvas. Mike yawned and called the stewardess for another drink. It was going to be a long flight.

Shakespeare is a Dick

Ok, this one is rough but I consider it a decent start of . . . something. It was written for class.











Day 1

There isn’t a single thing the droning nun in the front of the classroom could possibly say to interest me. After eight months of lectures, exams, and papers, she’s completely out of ammo and she knows it. This class only serves to soak up the remaining time in the day, and she knows it. The last assignment is the final paper, and everyone knows that.
Everyone knows what the final paper is and what it entails. Not because it is announced at the beginning of senior year and alluded to throughout, and not because it is presented in the student handbook and listed under the graduation requirements. We all know about the final paper because it stalks the hallways year after year, in screams and in whispers, echoing its icy reality to freshman and upperclassman alike. It is a phantom, its legacy preceding us and our parents: an ancient being beyond the scope of time. It did not begin and will not end; it simply is and will be. It endures longer in this school than the man that hangs on the wall in every classroom. It is the whole of our truth here.
But there’s no reason to worry. Four years of education mean there’s nothing to fear anymore. There are no surprises left. This thing’s been built up into something nasty and scary, but it’s nothing but an exercise we’ve been excessively prepared for. Frankly, it’s a waste of our time more than a test of our abilities.
She hands us our thesis statements. I smile. I toss it into my bag without looking at it and head out when the bell rings. It’s a beautiful day out.

Day 2

Yawn . . . I’m going to sleep in.

Day 3

I’m back from church and feeling productive. I take a look at my thesis statement and see that it’s something about William Shakespeare. I jot down a few thoughts in a notebook to make an outline later. I think it’s frisbee time. Oh yes, it’s frisbee time.

Day 5

I head for the library and start searching through the card catalog. It takes a long time to find what I need, and I start to wish this place would get modernized and switch to computers. After about an hour of wrestling with its many drawers, I have a post-it full of call numbers and titles. The search can begin.
I carefully select books that suit my research paper.An essay allows a person to share his own thoughts, but a research paper is an exercise of rearranging the thoughts of other people. So I have to find other people that have already said what I want to say so I can quote them instead of saying it myself. Once I find the books, I scan through them and take notes. The note cards make it easier to arrange my borrowed thoughts and quotations later, and I record the bibliography information so that I don’t need the books themselves. It’s tedious but easy, as a paper should be.

Day 7

The paper is mostly laid out and ready to be written. I’d say I’m pretty much half done, at this point.

Day 9

I open up my laptop and stare at the screen. It’s a big, white, empty, glowing space. I type a couple words. Then I delete them. I eventually manage to get a full sentence down, but it doesn’t flow well into what I try to write after, so I delete the whole thing again. The first paragraph is always the hardest. Once that’s done, the rest all falls into place. Everything’s easier after the first paragraph. My goal for today is just getting that first paragraph out of the way. I’ll have no trouble pumping the rest of this thing out after that. I just need to focus on this one paragraph.

Day 10

Fuck! This isn’t working. I ditch the computer and try a notebook. Blank pages. I scribble all over them. Random blotches. Senseless lines. Anything to mark the spotless bastards; anything to put those pompous, pristine and perfect punks back in their place. There. Not as intimidating now, are you? Not so pretty anymore. I start putting down words, but I don’t write them. I carve them. My first sentence runs about five pages deep. When I switch to my computer, I pulverize the keyboard with relentless keystrokes. I delete almost everything and write it again. Again and again. William Shakespeare revolutionized the Shakespeare is often neglected in modern Shakespeare was greatly influenced by Shakespeare produced some of the most Shakespeare is Shakespeare was Shakespeare did. Shakespeare accomplished more than any other writer out of spite. He did it all to make me miserable. Shakespeare ruined high school. Shakespeare kicked my dog. Shakespeare stole my lunch money. Shakespeare is a dick.
I don’t care about the assignment anymore. I hate Shakespeare. I hate nuns and I hate school. I hate this computer and I hate blank pages. I hate Lady Macbeth and her stupid spot. I hate my keyboard and I’ve had it with Othello. I hate sonnets and I swear I’ll dirty every fucking sheet of paper in this house. Who the hell does Shakespeare think he is?

Day 12

I can’t put this off anymore. Enough’s enough. I have work that I need to do, and I need to do it now. I just need to take this more seriously and get a grip. The assignment needs to be ten pages long, double-spaced. That’s only five real pages. Easy. I have two more days to work. That means two and a half per night. I already have my opening paragraph. The paper is completely mapped out. I take a deep breath and get to business. There’s no time for anything else. I’ve procrastinated and been stupid. This is my fault. It is not too late to fix it. I’m completely focused. I am working.


Day 13

If I can get the fourth page finished in the next half hour, I should be able to get the fifth done by 4:00. The fifth page doesn’t need to be more than half done; I can stretch the conclusion long enough to bring it home. Easy stuff. Easy. Then I can sleep for two hours and punch out a works cited page and the bibliography. Then print it out and bring it into school. No time to proofread. Easy. I can do this. No problem.

Day 14

William Shakespeare is a Dick:
An Exploration of the Bard’s Ego


William Shakespeare is one of the biggest jerks in history. It is a well-known fact that he enjoys kicking small dogs, and modern research suggests he enjoyed setting elderly women on fire.1 Though responsible for creating several milestones in English literature (provided Marlowe is not actually responsible), Shakespeare created an impossible standard that oppresses his predecessors. Also, he touches little boys.2

Day 15

I should have asked for an extension.

Experi-freaking-mental

(I wrote this on no sleep. It is rough. Open your head and grit your teeth.)

The rhythm of a cosmic palindrome

Beating

Away the entropic desire of

Man, last disciple of a broken lineage tumbling down

A plastic chasm

Toward the gentle warmth of heaven’s pitchfork,

Playfully prodding the meek into submissive acceptance,

The children dance and play,

Bleeding from the head

As they refuse to grow.

Afraid to grow, they sing and laugh.

Afraid to grow, they cry and curse.

Afraid to grow, they die in bliss,

Above the flames with sorrow churning

Prom night fuckers and brokeback lovers

Internal glory

Evolving.

Man divine in death,

Poets screaming beautiful excrement

As thinkers prod about the pit

How was school today?

Beautiful flame welding the wicked

Crafting new wings

Isotopic, galvanized, super-sonic, mesmerized

Eden burning with the damned left

Soaring.

The dreamers are exploring

delicious agony,

pushing aside the

pur

ashes.

An explosion of epiphany erupts throughout, the quiz is next Friday

Prepare yourself in blood and soot, hacking through filthy anatomy

With sterling silver instrumentals

Rising to a crescendo

Upon the dance floor, marked

By scuffing feet

Washed away from all eyes blinded

With gentle mood lighting.

Bring me more soup

The tip of his phallus in jeopardy

Double so now, scratch and reverse

It’s polarity, kick in auxillary

Deploy all units,

Pneumatic and writhing,

Slithering and devouring a post-bomb mentality.

Baby boomers, center stage

Children in the shadow

On a box 2 rot the mind.

A window destroying,

A window creating.

Crafting lethargic symphonies

As the band beats on

Marching through droves

Of pink lepers,

Crushing skulls underfoot in the name of today.

They slosh in the blender

Swirling

Toward light that is darkness

The demons in laughter

God’s head on their swords,

Fling stones at Atlas,

Breaking his arms.

Weathered Statue 1.5

One day while walking, all alone,

I chanced upon a tower of stone

And pondered what it represented

Finding each occurrence, I resented.

My rage exploded in a shove,

And this thing that loomed above

Fell to my feet and abruptly shattered,

For another to wonder if it had mattered.

An Age of Quiet Madness

An age of quiet madness keeps each child safe at night.

An age of quiet madness keeps us blind with gentle light.

While comfort and convenience render all so safe and sound

Few of us are burning to burn Eden to the ground.

With everything provided, there is no cause to rage.

All effort is so restful in this quiet, crazy age.

Starting from the top, and working slowly down

Those that are left empty wear the empty as a crown.

Falling off the Wagon/ Assorted thoughts

Oh, distractions. After a recent gaming binge and a general "stress collapse," I've pretty much let all the lines run slack. Honestly, I wonder if I belong in college some days. Probably not, but it's currently a safe place to explore myself.

I've already become inconsistent with my writing. I will remain so until finals are compelte. Let's face it, if I DO have free time, I intend to spend it escaping into video games or sleeping. Once the vacation begins, I intend to get back to it. Full force, too.

That's about all there is to say. I wish life had a rewind button. I'd like to do something crazy, but I'm not brave enough to risk everything. More correctly, I'm not foolish enough to risk everything for a change.

Or maybe that means I'm too foolish. Or that the world isn't foolish enough.

I read an inspiring interview that Pawel sent me about stand-up. Resulting fantasy: Wouldn't it be wild if Rich and I took some cash and just hit up amatuer open-mics in Boston for a couple months? Or the same scenario in New York, possibly auditioning for plays?

I'm as frustrated with my life as I am fearfully comfortable with it. It's safe. It's slow. It isn't entirely mine. I find myself questioning how much I'd honestly sacrifice to make my own way. To quit college and get a job. Could I do it? Could I do it alone?

As I said, at least I'm in a safe place to think. Too bad this place is so fucking expensive.

If I become a professor, how free can I be? I could still be a writer, but a performer? A director?


Fucking loans. As soon as I'm out of here, I'm divorcing my parents and faking my own death.

Fight, Baseball Man! For Everlasting Peace!!.

It is with a somewhat disturbing frequency that I am told I appear in other people's dreams. Seriously, it's like rapid fire. Different friends, in no way connected to one another, will often tell me I was in their dream the night before. Sometimes a different person each day of a given week. Am I so much to think about?

Well, I've done many things in these dreams. And sometimes I've done a whole lot of nothing. I've helped people out of burning buildings, acted all cool like the Fonz, and often just I've just hung around in the background. The most recent dream report is quite entertaining, which is why I post this at all.

Apparently, Sean dreamed he was in a "three-legged egg toss," when he caught me cheating. After having my plan exposed, I became enraged, announcing that my scheme was essential to my plan for world domination. In a flash of light, I transform into "Baseball Man," an orange version of Megaman with a cap that shoots baseballs from a blaster on his forearm. The dream ends somewhere around here.

Now, if that is not an awesome dream appearance, I don't know what is.

I think I've finally figured out why I never have dreams of my own. It seems I'm too busy hanging out in everyone else's. Somewhere across the world, in the Middle East, a young child is waking up in a cold sweat after being assaulted by a myserious orange demon wielding baseballs.