"Dear CatLoverTolkenFanDolphinFreer,

My name is Stanley. I really connected with your profile. Being a marine biologist who minored in Tolken Lore, my best friend Fluffy (my rescue cat ;) ) and I have been raising awareness for the safety of dolphins for years. When I first found Fluffy outside my window stuck in a tree, crying in the rain, we both bonded immediately over the article I had left open on the table. Fluffy jumped onto it with her tiny adorable sopping wet paws and turned it to the next page. I knew she wanted me to read it to her, since of course she couldn't read, yet! ;) That was when we first found out about the cruelty of dolphins and both turned vegan.

As Fluffy always says, what would Gandolf do? We started a letter campaign of two which quickly turned into  a much larger number thanks to my grad students and their insatiable appetite for righting the injustices of the world.

In equally sad news, on the lines of helpless dolphins being killed for the entertainment of humans, aren't humans the worst, I have to put Fluffy down. Fluffy being my main companion, best friend, snuggle monster, and stylist of 16 years. I am really down and do not know if I should be alone right now. Could you find it in your heart, and your schedule to meet with me in person? Maybe you could join my letter campaign to save the dolphins, and then help me give a proper goodbye to Fluffy.

Really hope to meet  you.

Stanley"

Tamra reread the letter over and over again, obsessed with keeping Fluffy's story alive, if only for a few moments more. After replying of course, to Stanley's letter, Tamra ran out of her yoga class, having once again fell to the temptation of checking her phone between the chakra chants, shocked to see that finally after all this time she had actually received an email from the dating site. Could it be true. Could he really have understood her through her carefully calculated profile where she poured out her soul? Could he be the one? Mrs. Stanley, wait no that wouldn't be right. Who was this mysterious perfect specimen of a man. Showing up two hours earlier than Stanley had planned, she was surprised to see someone already in the spot he had chosen. Could it be him? He must be keeping on winter weight as a tennis pro cannot really play during the off months, I guess, she thought.... He must be from a remote part of Jamaica, as he looked rather pale to be from the island. Who cares, she thought, he was the only one who ever responded to her profile. 

Clumsily she made her way over, having trouble controlling her bff Mr. Smittens, who loved being on a leash, if only to tangle it up on every single chair, leg, and pole that he could reach.

Mr. Smittens eventually made his way over to the spot that she was supposed to meet Mr. Wonderful. She helped Mr. Smittens by picking him up and forcefully, casually was the target, plopping him on the mystery man. My first test, she thought.

The man in the seat that was reserved for her mystery man shot up in shock screaming like a child and spilling his drink down both he and Mr. Smittens. Mr. Smittens was not a fan of black coffee, and Stanley said he was only a tea drinker....

"I am so sorry," Tamera said.  Feeling flustered by having been mistaken by the wrong man. "No, no, it is okay. I am fine... Tamera?" Said the chubby white man with no accent at all.

"Yes," Tamera replied being completely in denial about the series of lies already found out. "Stanley?  Your face..."

"Not as dark as you expected?" He said having photo shopped and cropped 50 cent into all of his photos.

"Not that, you are turning red and blotchy, and your eyes... are you allergic to cats?" She said.

"Nope not at all, it was this coffee, I had ordered a green tea," he said quite loudly to no one in particular. "I love cats. Come here cat." he said trying to pick up disgruntled Mr. Smittens. 

"I think he likes you," Tamera believed. "I am so sorry to hear about Fluffy," she said crying.

"Who?" He said.

"Your cat and stylist?" She said.

"My what, yes, yes, that cat, of course, my cat. Oh," he groaned into his hands trying to muster up tears, biting the inside of his cheek until he really did tear up.

"Fluffy," he moaned.

Tamera put her hand on his shoulder while he took that as an invite to wrap his arms around her and put his head against her breasts to fake sob.

A teenage waiter walked over to the odd scene, "Your tuna sandwhich, sir."

Tamera cried out in shock, at both being hugged by this stranger, and that he would order the death of an innocent creature of this earth.

"This isn't mine! I ordered the mixed greens that were free range! FREE RANGE." He bellowed at this punk who was blowing up his spot. Who shows up two hours early to a cat funeral date? This chick really was desperate, he thought, his odds improving by the second.

"Let's get out of here." He said, as a regular here, this was an amatuer manuever for having picked a spot, but sometimes that cute waitress worked here and gave him free bread and maybe some day a little more.

"Can I meet her?" She said.

"Who?" He thought he was found out about the cute waitress.

"Fluffy?" She said.

"Oh right, my cat." He said.

"And Stylist," she said tears welling to the breaking point.

"NO." He said.

"But... shouldn't you be with him, in his last moments." She asked, confused by why Fluffy was alone at this very moment.

"It's too late," he said sobbing and coughing into his hands. He really needed to quit it with the ciggs, especially those half finished ones from the ground. He really could get sick from doing stuff like that. A half unfinished cigg was a gift, he thought smugly, knowing he couldn't possibly be sick from finishing someone else's ciggs. The chemicals in the cigg would definitely cancel out the germs...

Tamera just stared on in shock unsure of what to say or do. Losing a best friend, she couldnt even imagine the anguish he must be going through. He was so upset he was clearly having an internal struggle.

This is going better than I could have planned, he thought. "Maybe you can help me empty the apartment of everything that reminds me of Fluffy? If you wouldn't mind. I mean I know we only just met, but I feel like I know you already, you know. Like we are soul mates, best friends. You know?

He wasn't sure how he was going to get the cat into the building, after clearly knowing his building didn't allow any pets of any kind, or explain to Nanna why there was a lady over.

"Of course, Stanley." Tamera said crying and hugging Mr. Smittens to her.

Together they walked out of the diner and into the door located immediately next door and went up one flight to Nanna's apt.

"I just want you to know, that I am taking care of my sick Nanna, and that she gets confused very easily. She may not even remember Fluffy!" He said.

Tamera nodded in complete understanding. This angel of a man, saved dolphins, and took care of his poor sick grandmother. What a saint.

"Nanna," he said hoping that she was out with her knitting club.

"Yes Bennie," She said rounding the corner dressed in her rock climbing gear. Her face could not convey the shock enough of finding her good for nothing grandson with an actual woman. She thought, her ticker might actually kick it, if it wasn't for all of that hot yoga readying her for such an occasion.

"Dear are you lost?" She said to the mystery woman holding a cat on a leash. She could not possibly be here because of her schmuck flesh and blood. "Are you selling cookies or something? Let me get my purse so you can get out of here. You know they don't allow cats in the building. and Poor Bennie is terribly allergic anyway. He already looks like a tomato.

"Bennie dear go get your cream and I will put it on you before I go to Boulders and beat my time, and that stupid Esther's record." She said.

"Oh Nanna, you poor dear. You know you aren't supposed to go out by yourself." He said quite loudly.

"What are you talking about?" Nanna responded, while he ushered her into her bedroom, also the only bedroom as Bennie slept on the couch, and had for the past 30 years. "Where are you taking me, what are you doing?" Nanna said.

"There, there Nanna," He said shoving her in the room and jamming the door. "So sorry about that, she has these spells. Her nurse should be along soon. I think it would be best if you left, and I could take care of her until her nurse arrives.  I am so sorry about that." He quickly saw there was no way he could get play with her now that Nanna was blocking his play. Besides, his allergies were really attacking him now, and if he didn't get that cream on him he would be miserable for the next week. 

There was no way that this chick could be buying all of this anyway, not at this point. No one with a brain could believe any of this. He was so bad at this whole dating thing. He couldn't even produce a better version of himself in cyber space without reality crashing in on him immediately. 

"I understand. Maybe you can do something another time, when you can get a break from this." She said gesturing to crazy Nanna's room. If Nanna lived here, she thought, where did Bennie sleep, since it was clearly a one bedroom. That is so nice of him, to give Nanna his bed, so that she would be safer, and able to be locked in, for her own good, she rationalized.

She could tell, he was the one. 

Your character meets someone on an online dating site. Your character writes an e-mail to the person, describing him/herself. Write the e-mail. This e-mail contains two lies. What are they? Why did the character tell them? Also: your character has a very mistaken idea of the impression he/she makes on other people. What impression does your character think he/she makes? What impression does he/she really make? Figure all this stuff out. If you want, fill out a character profile. The character arranges an in-person meeting with the person he/she has met online. What happens at the meeting? Write the story.

Quotespiration

"You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club."

-Jack London

The Untold Story of Astoria Greengrass

The sun had already set by 4:00 p.m. on the bleak wintry day that had Iona feeling uninspired since breakfast tea, but she would never have known it from the basement of the university's library where she had been researching since noon. In the dusty medieval cells that the campus had acquired, no natural light filtered into the low-roofed rooms, and the dingy metal lights cast buttery-yellow glows that flickered in and out, giving the dust and cobwebs shadows on the walls that made her jump or do a second-take at every narrow turn.

Iona was leaned over all the musty books piled around her, her chin resting on her hand, her gaze taken by the old stone walls, her eyes taking in the age and indentures. She looked down at her volumes and sighed. There was no more productivity to be had here, she realized. She decided to take the work back to her student dorm and try again after a meal and a game of pool if anyone was at the pub.

Iona never dreamed she would become so lethargic while researching Harry Potter and the tradition of English mythology. She loved Harry Potter! Harry Potter was a charm from her childhood that left magical traces in her adulthood, that made her feel warm and welcome when she thought of those thick, colorful books, and she had been thrilled to be able to take a college course in the subject. She was disappointed in herself for feeling so unmotivated and somewhat bored. She blamed it on the weather, and the culture shock of weaning off coffee. She had taken to drinking tea in an effort to acclimate to her host country, but found that she was a bit too American to go on without coffee as a fuel source.

Iona stacked all the books onto the table quickly, now eager to get out into the fresh Scottish air. More and more books she thumped on top of the others, until the pile was near under her chin. Slinging her schoolbag over her arm, she slid the corners of her books off the table, pulled the heavy load onto her arms and balanced it precariously under her chin, and made quickly for the narrow winding staircase to the front desk.

The librarian was a strict-looking man without much of a chin, wearing an argyle sweater vest and half-moon spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, secure by a gold chain wrapping around his neck. From behind the glow of his green bankers lamp, he looked at Iona with his eyes slitted, as though she were taking his own valuables by checking out the pile of books. He only grunted at her to take her library card, and stamped due dates hard in wet, red ink, and then pushed her pile back toward her to signal she was done, watching her struggle with the wobbly pile of books as she made out into the dark evening.

Iona walked quickly under the crushing weight of her load, wondering what sort of a caricature picture she made right now, running across the damp grass to her cottage room with half the library stacked in a leaning tower ready to topple at any moment. She near ran to her cottage door, just a short walk across the small school grounds, leaned back enough to let the books rest against her face as she used a free hand to fumble into her bag and find her key, wrestled it into the lock, turned, and pushed the door open just as the books crashed forward and went scattering about the hardwood floor of her small studio. She gasped with relief and let her tired arms hang to her sides as the muscles tightened and she allowed the bloodflow to return.

She stepped in and shut the door behind her, and after a minute, bent down on hands and knees to begin picking up her check-outs and place them on her small wooden table.

As Iona reached for a thin, emerald-green tome, she noticed that the cover was blank. There were no pictures or inscriptions. She turned it over to the back, with still nothing. The spine was also blank. She lifted the heavy cover and was surprised to find it filled with typical lined paper she used for schoolwork, and not at all the blank paper for publishing. She ran the pages through her fingers, and noticed that the pages were hand-written. She went back to the first page and leafed through one at a time. At around the third page, there was a small "Joanne" written in black cursive at the top.

"Is this someone's diary?" Iona wondered aloud. She did not remember pulling this book from any of the shelves, or sifting through it during her hours in researching this afternoon either. She continued to turn blank pages, until she opened to a page bursting full with thick, spilling ink, scrawled on from top to bottom, with ink stains and splotches filling some of the free area.

22 July 2007

It's finally done. It's all out there and slowly more and more people will finish the story and now this part of my life will be ending. It's weird to think that I have to leave this behind, on their orders. They were so clever, those wizards, to have me tell their story to such glory... and know that I would sound like a mad woman were I to admit that it was all real.

Iona looked up.

"What?" she yelped. She couldn't believe it. She went back to the first page, the one with Joanne written on it in black ink. She looked closer, and saw that next to Joanne, but lightly in pencil, was written Rowling in delicate, deliberate letters. Hurriedly she tore back to the first page.

...like a mad woman were I to admit that it was all real.

Oh, how I'll miss them. It feels so cruel to let me into the world, just to take it all away from me again. It makes me feel as though they've left a dementor hanging over my shoulder, always reminding me of what I've lost, reminding me how happy I had been, and how I can't have that back.

And to think! To think that it came from the mouth of Astoria Greengrass, and no one will ever know her story because she was too humble, and forbids me from publishing it. But what am I supposed to do? What do I do when that is the story that inspires me? What do I do when that is the story that really calls to me, and seems worthwhile?

Iona collapsed on the couch. She couldn't believe that she held the diary of J.K. Rowling in her hands, the very personal diary of Joanne Kathleen Rowling herself... and was she implying that the wizarding world was real, that it existed? That it made itself known to her for her to tell her story, but took themselves away again? How was this even possible? She knew the author's office was not far from her university here in Edinburgh, but it still made no sense that she brought it into her home from the university library.

The first entry was dated July 22nd, 2007. That was the day after Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released. She remembered it distinctly because it was her sister's birthday, and she could hardly stay awake during the birthday breakfast because she had been up all night reading the last book that she had picked up the day before, when it was released in bookstores.

But Astoria Greengrass? Iona couldn't remember who that was. Was she related? She flipped through the journal a little further in.

29 July 2007

I can't stop thinking about it. I miss them, I do. They moved away from me once they saw that the story was completed and on it's way to release. Poor Astoria, in love with Harry all those years, forced to debase him because of her family and her position in House Slytherin. Marrying Draco because she thought it might bring her closer to Harry in some way, that he would notice her if she just told his story. And she wanted nothing in return. Nothing, save for his affection, or his acknowledgement. And don't I know those hurts of unrequited love? What is one to do? From one heartsick woman to another, I'm not sure what to do about it now.

That's why I have to tell the story, somehow. But she won't let me. I have to get it out. From here on out, I will tell the story of Astoria Greengrass's heartache, her life that is completely devoid in the novels, her love that is completely unacknowledged, and now her turmoil, married to a man because he shared something with the man that she loved.

She remembered now. Astoria Greengrass was Draco's wife. They were seen at King's Cross Station to say goodbye to their son Scorpius the same time Harry and Ron were there with their families, as they boarded the Hogwarts Express.

The diary was thicker than Iona realized, and brimming with smaller script than she thought possible. Iona found the last entry.

31 December 2007

I will find a way to put this somewhere, where someone can find it. Where hopefully someone with some semblance of writing abilities can read it, and tell the story themselves. I swore I would not publish it myself, but I didn't say anything about anyone else. If you have read this, you must send this story off far and wide. It is a story to bring one to tears, one that can save Eurydice through story as Orpheus did through song. You must read the story of Astoria Greengrass, and then send it off yourself.

And I will find you and I will thank you. And you will not know that it was me and first, but you will know it after I am gone, and we will know that we did the world a favor.

For Wizards, Witches, and Muggles Alike
Joanne Rowling

Iona's heart was beating fast. An untold story. The untold story? Wasn't it always said that those who were first would be last, and those who were last would be first? She had in her hands, a story J.K. Rowling said would shake the world. A story of Astoria Greengrass and she was the one to do it. She could do it. And she would do it.

Iona shut the journal and locked it up in her bedroom. She grabbed her coin purse and went deliberately out into the damp, dark evening, off to buy a large amount of tea and scones, and a bigger amount of coffee.

She came back, arranged it all on the table, put the water onto boil, then got her computer and the journal. And she opened the journal up, prepared to type it out and be the next J.K. Rowling herself.

30 July 2007

Here is what needs to be retold.

There once was an English witch named Astoria Greengrass. And she didn't know that she would grow to have this life, one that could move us and shake the world if only she would let us share it, but here it is. This is the untold story of Astoria Greengrass...

FIN

Intentional Symbolism by Modern Authors

Famous Novelists on Symbolism in Their Work and Whether It Was Intentional

Prompt 6

Flipping through your library books for research, you find one of the books you incorrectly checked out. It's a handwritten journal authored by someone you know. Who wrote it and what does it say?

Due: Monday, May 5th-ish

Great Samaritan

Dear Diary,

Day 1 of this captivity. What a waste, why didn't someone tell me sooner I needed to lose these schmucks and get on with a real life? Jerry and George deserve each other and I'm a failure by association, and Kramer... I don't know what he deserves, it might be this, but I shouldn't be around for this. Stuck in a jail cell with them because of some stupid new good samaritan law? I am a damn GREAT samaritan who made dumb choices by sticking around with Jerry and staying even after we broke up. If nothing else, maybe I'll have a ripe vault of material for the Pederman Catalog when this is all done, assuming he'd ever have me back. Still, aren't we all allowed a mistake in our lives? I mean, come on, David Puddy is still roaming Manhattan alive and free and painting his face for New Jersey Devils game, and that's the real crime here. Who can I talk to about that, anyway? Does the NYPD accept unsolicited letter of seeking employment?

God knows I have free time now, so I'm going to list all the people I would rather be stuck in a jail cell with for years instead of these three locos

-Mr. Pederman
-The rabbi in my apartment building
-Ned The Communist
-Joel Rifkin (the actual serial killer, not my ex)
-Simon the Pretentious Brit
-John F. Kennedy Jr (obviously)
-Roxy the Barking Dog
-Vegetable Lasagna from the Plane
-Vincent, of Vincent's Picks
-Frank Costanza

Oh Jesus, George has apparently been reading this since he can't find anything else to do with his useless life and saw I preferred his father over him. Now he's going on and on about how he's better than his father and listing out everything his father's ever done, and I'll give him one thing, he really is sullying that Costanza name, which is saying a lot cause that name has already been run through the mud and the sewers and dirty subways out to Queens and back.

Oh my God how do I get a transfer to Riker's Island?! I gotta go, I gotta so slap their faces and bang their heads together. Just another day in my life of bad choices.

Laney Benes

"Ironic"

Dear Diary,

I have been having the strangest day. Murphy’s Law is going to end my life. I am sure of it. I started out as usual reading the newspaper like I did every single day. Nothing but bad news as usual, with a feature about Thomas Grimley, an old man who had just turned ninety-eight, had also won the lottery and died the next day. Of course his entire fortune that he only just acquired went to his mistress Connie. His family was fighting tooth and nail for that money, claiming Connie had conned old Thomas into rewriting his will last minute before he died. After pealing myself out of bed, now in a slump thanks’ to that article. I dragged myself to brunch where my girlfriend’s canceled on me last minute. This was so typical of them. 

Glad I brought the paper with me to keep myself occupied and out of the depths of emotional sorrow being alone, again. I ordered off the brunch menu which was key on a day like this to get unlimited drinks! Finally after an eternity of waiting of my idiot waiter I got my much needed drink. I couldn’t take the stares from everyone around me, the sympathy looks, oh that girl is alone. She got stood up no doubt they were likely whispering to each other.

What the f, something was in my glass. It's a black fly in your Chardonnay that really knows how to ruin a good boozy meal. Do you think the alcohol would kill off whatever diseases that fly was bound to have on it. I hope it didn’t come from Spain. I flicked it out of my glass and it landed in the duster’s dish across from me. That poor old lady had no idea. I wasn’t going to ruin her meal. Besides the alcohol cleansed that bug…

Man this newspaper is such a Debbie downer. I don’t know why I keep reading it. This sad sack finally found justice after 13 years of fighting against the allegations that lead to his being put in jail for something he swore he didn’t do. Apparently the real murder was caught and confessed to everything. It's a death row pardon two minutes too late that really makes this story pull at my heart strings. I mean cheesits, that guy really was innocent, all this time, and the system failed him. And now that same system had to then waste all of that money all over again on the real killer. And isn't it ironic... don't you think, Diary?

I still cannot get over how unseasonably crappy the weather was yesterday. I cannot imagine how devastated Alexandra and Derek must have been and to cram all of us inside the entire time when really the only reason they chose that venue was to have the landscaping and the view of the water.

It's like rain on your wedding day is not at all the good luck mother’s tell their daughters to try to cheer them up when the sky had determined their mate match is doomed. The whole thing was a real disaster. I mean at least we all got bombed. The dj’s equipment was completely ruined so we had to rely on an old radio the owner of the venue dug up. I kept switching it to NPR because really who wants commercials at your own wedding, let alone someone else’s you are forced to go to. I did them a favor!

Forget about all those nasty remarks from the people on the dance floor. Interpretive dance, people!

Everyone can do it. I do it to Ted Talks all the time. Like a fool I followed the instructions on the wedding invitation and booked hotel and transportation immediately. Finding out later that a bunch of my friends had gotten a suite together and carpooled, guess I missed that email chain.

It's a free ride when you've already paid, had they invited me or offered me a ride. They only ever include me when they think my face will get us into some hot new place. It is never when they go to the movies or out doing something interesting. My mother has warned me about people like this ever since I made the decision to be an artist. But really mother, the other people are so less attractive. If I am going to be seen in public it may as well be with these assholes. It's the good advice that you just didn't take, and really my mother is right. Here I am sitting alone drinking dirty champagne at boozy brunch alone.  Who would've thought... it figures.

Speaking of my mother she just emailed me an article about my cousin Doug. He had died! Mr. Play It Safe was afraid to fly, afraid to go on roller coasters, afraid to play with us when we were kids. He was a big mamma’s boy and wanted to stay indoors at all costs. Somehow he managed to land a gorgeous albeit overbearing step ford wife and produce four perfect children. I cannot believe he died. I would have thought he would have outlived us all the way he was. Can you even imagine? I can see it going exactly like this: He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye. He waited his whole damn life to take that flight. And as the plane crashed down he thought, I knew it! I knew I should have never left my mother. Well isn't this nice...And isn't it ironic... don't you think.

Well life has a funny way of sneaking up on you. When you think everything's okay and everything's going right. And life has a funny way of helping you out when you think everything's gone wrong and everything blows up in your face, I mean not for Doug though he literally died. Life did not in fact help him out at all.

I realized this meant that I had to get a ride to go see his family, and I would have to pick my mother up first. She gave me a two hour window to get myself together and go get her. 

I had to call for a car service because there was no way I would be able to drive at this point, no matter how much coffee. I forgot to eat at brunch, again. I did order something at least, I don’t remember what. Ugh just my luck, a traffic jam when you're already late is the worst icing on the cake. It totally drives you crasy but there is really nothing at all you can do about it but stew. So there I am stewing. Whenever I stew I need a cigg. Of course I broke my last one but thought what the hell I can smoke each half and get over it. It isn’t as though the filter really does much anyway. The driver rolled down the divider to point at something.

A no-smoking sign on your cigarette break, you have got to be kidding me. I paid top dollar for this car service. Did he know who I was? It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife sometimes. If looks could kill. Ugh. Really! Could this day get any worse? It reminded me of my date last week, or what would have been a date, had I gone to the right restaurant. Instead I went to the bar where the guy my friends set me up with told me to meet him. I saw him immediately and he was gorgeous. We hit it off and talked for what felt like hours. Love at first sight!

It's meeting the man of my dreams and then meeting his beautiful wife who was late to meeting him for their regular date night while the sitter was home with their two perfect children of the corn. Her children she just had to show me immediately. I don’t blame her. I was totally hitting on her husband, having had no idea he wasn’t the Pete I was supposed to meet. But his name was also Pete, what are the odds? And isn't it ironic...don't you think. A little too ironic...and, yeah, I really do think... I am coming across super whiny today.

Diary, you are the only one who truly gets me. This entry would make an excellent song. Remind me to try it out at the next open mic.

All my love,

Alanis

Prompt 5

Think about your favorite TV show or movie.  Become one of the main characters and write a diary entry based on the last episode or, if a movie, based on a specific scene.  Start with "Dear Diary..." 

Donuts over New Mexico

It was a crisp January 2^nd morning, Newark International Airport was buzzing as usual. The line for Hawaii Flight 8754 was filled with cheery families, newlyweds, and business suits. The tri-state area had just been hit by its 10^th blizzard, the next blizzard was supposed to start within the next four hours. Everyone was anxious to get up in the air and in the clear before the storm canceled these flights, again.

Mary-Ann Schuster a business exec for big oil was supposed to have taken this flight for work six times already. Six times it had been canceled. Six times she had been stuck in the cheap hotel on the same lot as the airport as the snow had made it impossible to go back to her one bedroom high rise in Chelsea.

Mary-Ann hated to fly. She hated to have meetings with greedy wealthier than 99% of the population CEO’s but it was her job. She was good at it. She was the only one who could sweet talk her company’s numbers into fairing the way her bosses wanted. Her bosses, also part of the 1%.  She had landed in this job years ago graduating from Harvard as a human rights and environmental activists majoring in law and civil engineering. She was a rare breed. Mary-Ann went on to get her law degree at Stanford, wanting to be closer to sites that she volunteer canvassing saving the planet, the otters, the whales, the sea lion etc. 

Somehow one day she pushed her way into a media blitz live televised government schmoozing event, which was supposed to speak about the new building that would go underway, and instead became redirected by Mary-Ann to save the endangered blue bonnet nesting pelican, she caught the eye of one Jason Braverman VP of big oil who was there raising capital for a candidate his bosses were marketing for. Jason saw the passion that Mary-Ann had over a weird looking bird and thought what a waste of talent. Jason was a closer. It took him seven hours to close her. She made him work for seven hours before accepting the job she already decided she wanted the moment he offered it to her. Imagine the damage from within she could do if she had access to all of the secrets of big oil.

Jason came running up in line to meet Mary-Ann of course he was in his signature look of his ten thousand dollar dark grey suit with purple accents. Mary-Ann being the secret activist that she was bought all of her clothes from her friend who she went to law school with and decided to make organic business clothes for a living. They clothing looked a little off and was itchy but no slave labor was used in the making of it and no animals were involved and so Mary-Ann wore it happily. She was used to ignoring the public’s complaints and whispers. Mary-Ann was clearly surprised to see Jason and didn’t know what to make of his appearing there. “I am coming with!” He said. And her heart stopped.

Mary-Ann had planned on using this business trip to land in Hawaii and then take off on a cruise ship under a false name to disappear into the Alaskan wilderness. She had been planning this day forever. She had had to postpone it forever blizzard that had prevented her from getting on this plane. At first she thought it was an omen, and then she rallied realizing it is global warming and that she would soon be making the difference she had led out to do when she signed up with big oil. She had it all set for the moment that cruise ship takes off a chain reaction would begin thus taking down big oil. Why oh why was Jason Braverman here when she knew he hated business trips. He was going to ruin everything. “Hello Jason.” She said doing her best Newman from Seinfeld impersonation. It was this impersonation that struck at Jason in a way he couldn’t figure out. It made him upset for her to think that he was the enemy. He knew where she stood politically and environmentally. He had hoped that she would revolutionize big oil and bring it into the future of sustainability, after all oil was becoming more and more scarce. Jason was forced into this job by his father and grandfather, six uncles, and four older brothers. It was a family business. They were from Texas after all and everything they did was big.

He went to Brown for undergrad for science, went to Stanford for a Masters in science, then a masters in engineering, then a masters in sustainability. He was still working on his PhD as his family got a bit irritated realizing that Jason was not in fact getting the MBA he had said he was, twice. They didn’t have any use for him getting science lessons. Jason so far was disappointed with Mary-Ann. She had done every her bosses had asked of her. She never rocked the boat, never suggested any alternatives. It was the weirdest thing about her outside of her clothing choice and her decision to never wear make-up as it was a horrific industry of abuse and planet destroying, not to mention taking away self-esteem.

She was very quiet around him all the time. Where had that girl gone that he had seen protest with more passion than anyone he had ever met? She fidgeted with her dura-suit which could be used as a sled or eaten if needed, she explained once when they were stuck in an elevator and Jason was caught staring at her. He didn’t care about the suit. “I moved us both up to first class! You’d think there would be more security in allowing me to change someone else’s ticket not even related to me.” Jason rambled when he was nervous, and Mary-Ann was  a great source for that. This was going to be a long plane ride.

After hours of Mary-Ann trying to avoid eye contact for fear of being caught, and Jason who then filled in the empty space where tension existed by talking about anything he could think of. Mary-Ann finally excused herself to go hide in the bathroom. How could she stick with her plan when Jason just explained to her how he wanted her to change big oil by turning it around from within? It shamed her to think that perhaps he was right and that she had wasted all of this time when she could have been doing a direct route of pushing for sustainable alternatives. It was big oil though; they would have fired her had she brought it up. Wouldn’t they have? She doubted her plans more and more, when the captain came on, “We are experiencing technical difficulties and will be landing in TruthorConsequences, New Mexico. It shouldn’t be long before we are back up in the air.”

Mary-Ann found her seat next to Jason who seemed to still be talking without her. Landing for more than an hour would mean Mary-Ann would not make the cruise, and then not be able to disappear as planned while her big oil take down still happened. She couldn’t breathe. She in fact passed out.

“Mary-Ann, Mary-Ann can you hear me?” Her eyes had trouble adjusting in the harsh sun light. “We are taking you to the hospital here. You fainted and couldn’t be woken back up until now. And I tried everything.” He said. Tried everything? What did that mean? Taking us to the hospital? Where were we, had we made it to Hawaii?  “The plane, the plane,” she said. “No its okay they can’t get it to take off. Some guy was hiding in the undercarriage of the plane. He had switched the fuel with donut grease. Can you imagine? What a wacko.” Jason rambled. Mary-Ann was reminded of someone she used to date, in fact her only long term boyfriend, used to pull stunts like this all the way back in college. But no it couldn’t be.

The jacket of the two volunteer first aid squad members read TruthorConsequences. She did not make it to Hawaii, she was in fact in hell, she figured. At any minute she would be picked up by homeland security or worse big oil and never seen again. While she was being lifted into the ambulance, she was able to see the man Jason had mentioned being taken in handcuffs by local authorities into a police car. He looked just like her ex Roger. She could have sworn it was him. Wouldn’t that be ironic. It couldn’t be him. Last time she heard Roger had disappeared into Malaysia after pulling an epic stunt of setting off 400 Canadian geese at a big tobacco gala in Alabama.

“I am her fiancée, I will be riding with.” Did he just say that? Jason was shoving himself into the tiny old ambulance with her. He even held her hand to continue his lie. What drug was this guy on? He was out of his mind Mary-Ann thought. He was also making it impossible for her to sneak away and find her new ride to Alaska. She was holding on to her hopes of escaping into the wilderness. Her new life was waiting for her.

Suddenly the ambulance was being redirected, driving dangerously, but she could not overhear what was happening. Jason was getting slammed against the ambulance walls and of course onto Mary-Ann finally wrapping himself around her and the gurney she was strapped to as it was the only thing he could anchor too. Get off of me she said but he couldn’t hear her as she had said it through the smooched oxygen mask under his right peck. “Don’t panic Mary-Ann I got you.” Jason said. At this point the oxygen from the small tank was the only thing keeping her from being suffocated by unknowing Jason.

The ambulance screeched to a halt. And the back doors swung open, as she heard the front doors open and the driver shriek. “Mary-Ann, don’t panic.” A different voice said. It was in fact her crazy ex-boyfriend Roger. “I did it Mary-Ann, just like I promised you. You said if I ever changed the world, you would take me back.” Jason was still shielding Mary-Ann with his body blocking Roger to take her in his arms as he planned. Three men in cat burglar outfits vaguely reminiscent of Mary-Ann’s weird clothing entered the small space to drag Jason away from Mary-Ann and pull Mary-Ann out via the stretcher.

“I know it is a lot to take in, but we kind of don’t have the time right now,” that sounded familiar to when she used to date Roger, something made her more uneasy than usual. Quickly in the blazing heat of New Mexico they were put into an unmarked black windowless van.  “Roger, it feels like you are kidnapping us.” Mary-Ann was finally able to free herself of the straps and crunch oxygen mask. Roger was too busy speaking with the other, idiots, Mary-Ann decided to call them.

“Roger, did you put donut grease in that airplane?” She said.

Smiling like a jack’o’lantern in heat, Roger said, “Baby I knew you’d understand.” Roger kissed her on the lips. And then got home made pepper sprayed in the face. Which under the circumstances was understandable, however in a small area like the back of a van more consideration should have been taken. The homemade pepper spray hit the air and multiplied, stinging everyone’s eyes and nostrils, and throats. “I remember that recipe, babe. It really is just like old times,” Roger the idiot said. Moments later they pulled to a stop and opened the doors of the van to get air. Little did Mary-Ann know Rogers plan was just the beginning.  Before them laid miles of tent villages and the old wooden sign repainted Peace Farms and Higher Education Village. Higher had a pot leaf as the space filler where the G should be. This was an old commune. It was filled with hundreds of dirty looking hippies.

“This is our new home, until we can make it safely out of the country.” Roger the idiot declared, with the hopeful smile of one who doesn’t realize he isn’t going to make the jump.  “At least let Jason go, Roger, he has nothing to do with me.” She said.

“I want to stay,” Jason said. Roger was already handing Jason a pack, it had his name written on it in marker, Roger’s handwriting. And then Roger handed Mary-Ann her pack.

“What the f is going on? Why do you have a pack for Jason, how did you know I was going to be on that plane?” She said.

“Well Mary-Ann, Jason here paid for our little excursion.” Roger said.

“Roger all that is in this bag is a bunch of stale twizzlers, old hiking boots, an American flag bikini top, and peace sign sunglasses.” She said.

“Babe, I know, it’s everything you left behind the day you put our relationship on hold.” Roger the idiot said.

Instead of dealing with Roger and his crazy ass backwards view on the world, Mary-Ann turned her anger onto Jason.

“What did I ever do to you, that you would do this to me? I have always done all of the assignments you have given me in record time, inflating all goals and tripling our intake.” She said.

“I didn’t hire you to do the job, I mean I did, but I expected you to use your passion for saving the planet to change big oil. And so I figured you like everyone before you just fell in love with all the money and spoils of war. So I took it upon myself to snap you out of it, with a little help from Robert.” He said.

“It’s Roger,” Roger the idiot said.

“If you really want, you can go back to your new reality, but you have to give us one week to let us change your mind.” Jason said.

“Can anyone find me here?” She said.

“We are as off the grid you can get, while staying actually on the grid. This old Christmas tree farm supports itself. We have new identification for everyone here, and your old life cannot find you. If you so choose. But if you want your old life, your old familiar comforts, once you leave you never come back.”

In a way, despite Roger being the dumbest scientist she knew, he kind of helped her escape, without having to go to Alaska and escape solo into the wilderness.

One week turned into ten years. 

Jason and Mary-Ann were married by Roger who finally got over his love of Mary-Ann by finding comfort in the lord… and booze. Big oil became obsolete thanks to Mary-Ann's plans, and was instead replaced by a bunch of mini alternative energy companies that shared resources instead of monopolizing earth’s bounty. That plane that landed in TruthorConsequences New Mexico never did take off again, turns out donut grease it not a healthy alternative for flying.

Key South

I got a letter in the mail. That didn’t surprise me, because all my correspondence comes in the post mail for me, but what surprised me was who it was from. Rory Abbott, with his name on the envelope. I used to let myself secretly think, in unspoken thoughts I was too ashamed to acknowledge, that I wanted him to reach out. I wanted him to work to find me, to tell me that he missed me and wanted me to come back and start our life together.

I stood at the mailbox in the humid morning air, the sea breeze blowing my lazy fallen strands of hair back around my neck. It was a lush morning, and quiet. The heavy tropical plants seemed to be collecting sweat already, the bright houses were glowing in the morning rise, and chairs rocking breezily on their thick wooden-plank porches.

I looked back down at the browned envelope in my hand, already damp, having spent a few days traveling through the Keys, no doubt. Now that this letter was here, I didn’t know what I thought. I didn’t feel the sense of relief and romance that I thought I would. No, there was nothing but a wave of self-loathing that I had worked so hard to give up.

I walked back up to my porch, barefoot over the uneven cement where thick crabgrass grew in the cracks, slowly, slowly up the steps, and sitting at small table in the small wicker chair on the porch in a daze. I tossed the mail on the tabletop in front of me, Rory’s letter face-up. I sipped iced coffee. I thought about Rory. I thought about me. I thought about the plane that brought me here, and the disaster that kept me here.

It’s been four years now. Back then, I was living in Boston. I was married. I would have said that I was happily married, because I truly felt that I was happily married, but happily married people don’t have affairs. So why did I do it? I’m asked that by everyone, but I asked it of myself more. I had just moved to Boston with him. We had been married a few years, I loved him. Then I met Rory, by chance, on the small walk of West Street off the Commons. I felt nothing more than some sort of Hunt; it raised my blood pressure, awoke my Fight or Flight, brought tension and adventure to my life. And the moral world, the world on paper, can’t seem to believe in relationship indulgence out of marriage. I didn’t believe in it either, until it happened. Isn’t that the way it always goes? And now? Am I criminal for being human?

When everyone found out, I broke. Why was I surprised? Energy in, energy out. Tension build, and tension break. My husband left for a week, to stay with his brother in Milwaukee. I didn’t blame him, but I cried on the floor while he packed his things. Who had I become? I thought I had integrity. I still felt like I had integrity. Did this slip invalidate my entire life? I couldn’t stay there in that emptiness. A friend had once told me about a beach in Belize. I had never seen the beach in Belize.

I loved that beach. It was lush. I felt loved, at a time when I wasn’t loved, not even by myself. It was weird though, the way I couldn’t push the dark thoughts out, couldn’t stop internally berating myself, couldn’t stop thinking about my husband, about Rory, about the way I ruined my life at 24, and the stain I was going to carry on now forever… but when the afternoon thunderstorms came, my mind was clear, I could think of anything.

It was gone when I got on the plane. I was back to my place of suffering, the room I knew would always exist in my brain, always there in my mind for me to revisit, no matter how many locks I put on it. We had a layover in Miami, but we didn’t get that far. The plane required an emergency refuel and the closest airport we could get to was Key West, and we barely made it there. As the plane descended in a rocky, turbulent landing, I knew my impending death would be everything I deserved. I cried against the window while they refueled, until they told us we all needed to disembark. I wrestled my carry-on out of the overhead compartment, and sulked into the airport to wait, but as I exited the plane into the Florida air, something changed. Something smelt of hope, the wind brought a sense of rebirth with it, that heated island air. I was barely in the lounge when they announced our plane was discovered to have a mechanical error, and to see customer service to book new flights. I saw the signs for customer service. I walked towards it. Got to the desk. And then I kept on walking. I walked right out of airport. There was nothing to go home for. I had ruined lives. Me, I was the cause. I didn’t deserve to feel better, and they didn’t deserve me around for the hurt, and they didn't deserve me around to use me. I would be home now, on Key West.

I took a cab to the downtown. I found a room not far from Ernest Hemingway’s house. I saw the neighbors waving to one another. I saw the old man smoking at the outdoor café. I saw the roosters roaming the streets. And I saw myself here, for a long time.

I had a fine job in Boston, but the job market in the isolated Key was limited. I approached the landlady of my small inn and offered to work for her for room and board. She agreed. I worked for some of the sunset cruise companies in the evening for money. I made friends with tourists, I made friends with the locals. I didn’t tell anyone but my parents where I was, and told them not to tell anyone else. The humid climate suited me well after those cold Boston winters. The small, intimate community was good for me after the sprawling anonymity of the larger city. I found myself happier here, alone, than I had ever been with someone, up north. I found friends in other local business owners. It was enough to satisfy my lonely times, but not enough to ever make me godmother, and that was how I liked in. I began painting the lighthouse in different painting styles. I braided my hair, I bought flowing island dresses, I let go of my self-degradation. I bought a bike. I fed the roosters, the roosters who wake us for morning, for light. And only sometimes would I wish that I would Rory would work to find me, to prove to me that maybe it had been real, that maybe it was worth ruining my life over. But he never did. And each year I forgot about it a little more, and my wedding ring tan faded into oblivion, as though it had never been there.

And four years later, here it was. I had disconnected myself in every way possible, and his sealed, stamped letter had found it’s way here to my life on Key West that had been so devoid of everything before, that at times I really was able to convince myself that it had never happened. I looked at the letter, and reached for it, and my fingers were trembling.

I looked at it, and took a breath, and then tore it open, pulling the letter from it and almost ripping it, and was disappointed at the brevity of it, even though I hadn’t read it yet. What would it say? Would he reappear? Would this all be worth it? Would he come? Would I go? Would it be an ending?

 
You’re hard to find, you know that? Let me know when you’re in town again, I still have that spare room

Rory

I felt sick. I had wanted to hear from him I realized, but I wanted it to be something other than it was. But it’s what it had always been. Why did I still want him more than the man that had been my husband? I see now that he was the better man, better for never reaching out, better for never tormenting me, for delineating me. And he was the one I knew I’d never find again. Who comes up with these endings? We all have so many acceptable endings for our lives, so many permutations and ideas, and none of them ever what we are actually delivered.

I heard a rooster crow. I took my iced coffee in my hand and walked back down the porch, down the crooked walkway, into the street. Did Hemingway ever feel this validated? He had to have walked this street at some point during his tenure here. I smiled because for the first time, I knew with certainty, I knew that here was where I’d stay forever.

Fail Forward

"Fiction is experimentation; when it ceases to be that, it ceases to be fiction,” storyteller John Cheever once stated in an interview. Unforeseen conflict reveals hidden character flaws and virtues. Don’t self-edit. Though it may not make the final draft, experimental writing deeply informs both style and character. Writing is the act of failing forward every time you sit down.

Prompt #4

Your character is traveling across the country and your plane needs to stop for an emergency refuel. You find out something more serious is wrong with the plane and you have to stay overnight. You decide to just stay perpetually in the town you land. What happens?

Due: March 31, 2014

Tension in Fiction

Tension is critical in fiction. Tension is the difference between a story about a boy flying a kite and a story about a boy flying a kite in an electrical storm. Tension often is created through conflict—which means your character must want something desperately: an apology from a lover, respect from a father, a cup of water on a crowded lifeboat.

The Future Adventures of Penny Coppercoin

Penny Coppercoin was walking along her favorite avenue with the deserted old buildings, imagining what life must have been like when the cities were still populated. She heard stories from her grandmother and saw holograms of it in her classes at school: people covered the sidewalks going every which way, in and out of buildings. She wondered how people found their way or remembered which corner was which, or how they lived in all the cement and brick buildings. She like the ancient, old, bent-metal sign on the road in that said "Nashville" from over a hundred years ago. Her grandmother told her that's what the city used to be called. Cities used to have names that they made up, usually named after the first people and what they called themselves or places. Of course around 2050 they realized how politically incorrect this was, and that's when they renamed all the areas to represent the House of the United States. The northeast where the capital still was, was the Bedroom, where everything happened behind closed doors, and the middle was the Living Room, because that's where most of the low-key suburban living happened, and the southeast corner where Penny Coppercoin lived in was the Garden.

Penny often snuck out during the day, when the rest of the world was sleeping. After the Great Skin Diseases of the 2070s happened, the United States transitioned to the Nocturnal Clock, and the rest of the world quickly followed suit. Because of this, everyone deserted the hot cement cities in search of the countryside and forests, and built their houses below the earth, to stay cool while sleeping. Penny Coppercoin would go out with her best friend and sidekick, Lincoln the Lightning Bug, and it was much easier for them to go unnoticed during the day, when his flickering flame wouldn't be seen as well.

Penny and Lincoln were playing around a huge old electric guitar when Lincoln started glowing off and on faster and faster.

"Oh no, Lincoln! You're right, it is getting dark, everyone is going to be waking up soon! We need to get home and get in bed before Mom finds out!" Penny cried. She strapped on her backpack and went running down the pavement. It always hurt her feet, but she liked the feeling of resistance. Lincoln zoomed ahead, glowing on and off and lighting the way back into the forest.

They ran fast out of the town and into the lush forest as the afternoon was ending and the humid heat was just starting to cool with a river breeze. Penny was running full force, jumping over small hills and tree roots, dodging branches and brambles, and she recognized their civilization coming in with the flags propped up on poles in the earth, signaling the rooftops of homes and nearby stairwells leading down into them. As she was rushing past one, though, she past by the warm smell of hot, fresh bread, and stopped in her tracks.

"Wait Lincoln!" she shouted ahead to the fluttering insect. "Do you smell that?"

Lincoln came rushing back and blinked in her face.

"We should visit the baker first. We can bring home some bread for Mom," she suggested. Lincoln switched on and off, buzzing loudly his disapproval, knowing it would make them late.

"Well, we'll probably be late anyway, and this way Mom will think we just left to pick up breakfast. Come on!"

With that, Penny turned right and led the way to the riverside, going down the stone steps into the cavernous muddy walls of the bakery until there was almost no light left, and candles lit the way.

Penny and Lincoln found the baker wiping his brow with a flour-covered hand and yawning awake.

"Nickel! Fancy seeing you here so early. What can I get for you?"

Penny was confused. The baker looked a little delirious, and he had called her a weird name, even though he had known her since she was born.

"I'd love two fresh loaves of bread, sir," she said politely, unsure if she should correct him or not.

"You got it, and I'll even throw in a fresh fish or two for being my first customer," he smiled and winked at her. "It'll be just a minute, the loaves were just put in the oven. Hang out with the president," he suggested, waving his hand to the corner of the room. Penny knew something was up with the baker, he didn't sell fish, and it wasn't the president in the corner of the room, it was the mayor, sitting and reading the newspaper.

"Miss Penny Coppercoin!" he declared, lowering the newspaper. "What are you doing up so early?" he asked.

"Oh you know, just getting breakfast sir. How are you?" she asked politely.

"Well I was doing fine, but suddenly my own breakfast is not sitting well with me. I had one of them French pies, you know that quiche or whatever it's called, but I'm thinking I'm going to have to stick to 'Murican food, I do feel a little queasy..." the mayor went a little pale as he talked, and Lincoln flitted in and blinked in front of him.

"Mr. Mayor you don't look very well, should we go up to the riverbank?"

"As a matter of fact, Penny, that's exactly what I'd like to do! You have to see the new house I bought, I've been dying to show someone and I haven't shown anyone yet and I've been thinking that I might die if I don't show someone soon!!" he exclaimed, throwing down the newspaper and bounding down the hall and up the stairs, following by Lincoln, lighting up and down, who seemed to be just as excited as the mayor.

Penny was the last one out, and could just make out the mayor running upriver, shouting over his shoulder "this way! this way!" she sighed and then went running after them full force, following Lincoln's blinking and coming up on a small lopsided wooden shack, with a creaky, uneven swining door that had the cutout of a crescent moon on it.

"This is the new place I just bought!" the mayor declared with pride. "Do you know how hard it is to find old real estate from the Above Ground Era in the forest? I can't go too far or no one would vote for me again ha ha!" he laughed at himself, before putting his hand over his mouth in a wave of nausea that turned his face green.

"Sir? Are you okay?" Penny asked. Lincoln fluttered his concerned.

"Oh yes, yes. Just that quiche that isn't going down. Isn't this great?" he kicked the door to show a tiny, inside with a square floor and a hole dug into the ground, and a putrid smell coming out of it. Penny put her hand over her nose and Lincoln went dark with polite disgust.

"They were called 'outhouses' in their day, they were like a home away from home, and you don't even need to leave to go to the bathroom! You just go over the hole," the mayor beamed with his nauseous green face.

Suddenly Penny remembered a lot of what she had learned in school about the Above Ground Era and old houses.

"Mr. Mayor!" Penny cried. "You can't! This is what is making everyone sick! Your outhouse is going downriver toward the baker's and that's what's poisoning his bread and quiches and making him delirious and you sick!"

The mayor reflected a moment, then turned around and retched into the hole dug in the outhouse.

"My, my, Penny Coppercoin, you are a true detective, a real go-getter, just as bright as your name and you just saved my life and many others' lives. I think you deserve to be Mayor for a Day, what do you say?"

The mayor unpinned his Mayor Medallion from his suit and put it proudly on Penny, and Lincoln the Lightning Bug flickered his approval bright.

"Now, what do you say we go back to the bakery and order up some new bread after this is all sorted out? I'll take you home personally and explain the whole ordeal to your mother, and you'll serve in my spot for the day, and you can even bring that flickering light with you."

Penny Coppercoin didn't have to think twice.

"Race you to the baker's!" she cried, and took off running before the baker or Lincoln knew what had happened.

Ibraham Bean of the future

Ibraham Bean loved turning back the clock. Not for the extra hour of sleep, but because with his prized collection of super antique wind up clocks he would have hours of work ahead of him setting back time. The one thing he still got to do by hand and without the help of a bot.

His collection of clocks went all the way back to his childhood in 2086 when his great grandfather nicknamed “Beta” Bean handed down his most cherished Austrian kuku clock. This was back when “countries” like Austria still existed, very unlike today when countries had turned into even smaller metropolises in the new era of every major city amputating into its own territory.

A throw back if you will to the olden times when Texas thought it should bud away from the United States into its own country. Well look what you started Texas. Now just about anyone could bud off their city into its own country. The country once known as New York City and now only referred to as Manhattan the country lead the way.

Ibraham Bean was a historian. He didn’t like how history hadn’t repeated itself this time. This new era of forming pacts and alliances with thousands upon thousands of individual mini countries really made it hard out there for the working man and woman. The world taking the old television shows of survivor a little too seriously.

In order to just commute to work via his speedster flying Vespa he has to pay a toll including a visa fee to go less than fifty miles from his pod, or for you old ninnies what would be considered a house, if it wasn’t so spherical and buoyant. Ibraham’s easy pass which somehow made its way through the years as the one and only easy access toll paying device company, showed a tally per day of over $450.00. As an accountant, reporting to computer based number crunching rude robots, Ibraham came to the realization that his commute cost more than his pod and taxes. He was already being taxed out the bot for living and breathing taxes.

As he made his way around his house turning back all 150 historic clocks it was time for him to get ready for work, which thank goodness the alert-bot reminded him of, he was so confused by the time he had wound all those clocks as to what time it really was. The clean bot found him and started preparing him for his morning routine without even finding out if he was indeed ready. No this clean bot meant business, and showed no mercy.

First it sucked away Ibraham’s pajamas which as you know in this age were tear-aways like all clothing, making it easier for the bots to do their thing, and for you the human to save precious time.  Ibraham was a bit chilled this morning on this fine July day with his pod knowing he preferred it this way. The bot read his body temperature and goose bumps and shot hot air at him in spurts to help him get over it momentarily until the uni-shower began. What is a uni-shower you ask? How are you reading this without knowing what a uni-shower is!?

The clean bot’s top selling gimmick is that it creates a cleaning mist that can happen literally anywhere, it blocks all private bits, and really cleans well using new technology cleaning mist agents, soaps and shampoos were so yester year. It’s all about the mist clean guarantee! It works for up to an hour even after it has ended. Check with your doctor bot before testing this product.

Now that Ibraham was nice and misty and wrapped in a Velcro-on towel his dress-me-bot appeared. It was the be-all end-all of ending your struggle with deciding what to wear. It did all of the thinking for you! And with just a small pinch here or there and the familiar sound of the Velcro coming apart and then being replaced by more Velcro Ibraham was dressed in the suit of the future! Which looked pretty similar to that of years ago for a middle manager position only, you may have guessed it, it used Velcro to fasten on.  Ibraham didn’t like the feeling of Velcro or of bots cleaning and dressing him. It made him feel strange and not in a good way. It had always been like this since his birth but it never sat well and constantly weighed on his mind. What is the point of saving a few minutes if I can feel less strange, he always thought.

It was time for Ibraham to throw on his oxygen helmet, required by law when outside of your pod, and hopped on his Vespa. He turned on last night’s season ending shocker of Dallas 2.0 where there is rumor that Bobby Ewing may actually succeed against the bad guy and let the vespa drive for him. Yet another perk of the future. As he was really getting into this episode a flash commercial popped into his helmet.

“Ever wonder what it would be like to live past? Well now you can! We at Virgin Atlantic have perfected time travel to go back. If you, or a loved one, are just not having a good time with all of these robots, this is the answer for you. If you want to go to our web simulation click here with your mind.” And sure enough Ibraham did.

By the time he arrived at work, Ibraham had purchased his ticket, and rented out his pod. His stuff was being packed by the moving-bots already. He would be getting on a transporter this very evening. He had been waiting for this his whole life.

At work it was business as usual, as Ibraham is the only human in the company other than the CEO and VPs who never had to go to work, and collected the big money all the same. This didn’t stop Ibraham from telling every single bot that he went past all about what he had just signed up for. Does not compute was the only response he got. He was used to this. It happened every time he tried to have a conversation with these tin walls of silence.

He ate his lunch by himself for the last time, watching the bots shut down and plugged in for their lunch time reboot. His lunch pills seemed even sadder than usual. He fondly recalled his great grandfather’s stories of lunch meat and sliced cheese. Cheese, a constant favorite for Ibraham to hear about. He could not wait to go back in time to when all of these things existed. A time where people spoke directly to each other in person and didn’t use technology so much. He had signed up to go back to the early 1900’s, which is okay because he had had his millennia shots.

Ugh, his stomach was going crazy. He shouldn’t have had that extra pill helping of cheesecake. What was he thinking, the pill seemed so small, but expanded thusly in his stomach. Every time, Ibraham thought.

After collecting his money via his iphone500 for the rent upfront for the year from his pod, and vespa sale, he said farewell to his vespa, and hopped onto the transporter. Oddly enough he noticed a lot of recycling and garbage being loaded on underneath the transporter. I wonder why the past needs this garbage and recycling that we have been promised is always reused unlike ever before. Hmm. Maybe they will share this technology with the past so that we can maybe save the planet in a way that would let people breath air outside of their pods…

He thought a fond fair well to this horrible place he had called home all his life. The sting of the air had made his hands bright red, he had forgotten to put on his safety gloves before leaving work today, in all of his excitement.

The countdown began. He was happy to see that other human beings were also on this transporter. Mostly really old people, but a really sweet looking woman who may be just a tad younger than him was also settling into her seat. Around her neck she wore a necklace with a small sprocket on it. As he gained enough courage to try to speak to her, he hadn’t spoken directly to another human since his father passed away two decades earlier, the safety hoods came down and blocked him in a big way. The countdown ended and they were shot into the past faster than the speed of light!

Awoken hours later, Ibraham did not like the shaking feeling the transporter was causing him. Something must be wrong he thought. Maybe it is turbulence like he had watched about in the safety manual video the hood displayed early. Turbulence only happens in the past!

Crash landing later, the transporter in tatters, Ibraham crawled out of the wreckage afraid for his life, afraid that the air would burn off his skin. The air, although a bit cloudy, did not sting his face. He coughed because of smoke from the crash. But this air was clean! He must have made it. He was alive. He was back in the 1900- what is that sound? A weird loud noise was approaching him. Flashing lights were getting closer. Oh no, he feared!

Sir are you okay, a human wearing weird clothing asked, not wearing a helmet like was custom.

What year is this, Ibraham asked.

This is 1984 sir. Replied the strange human being. He hadn’t made it. He was stuck in 1984. Luckily he had heard all good things about it while watching historical video documentaries about this decade. He was disappointed, but happy to be alive. He wasn’t sure he could really get into the flock of seagulls or pull off their hair. But hey he would make the most of it. And stay away from the white powder which ruined so many careers. Most of the passengers under the age of 90 had made it also . Some had passed away on the flight even before the crash. And all of the garbage and recycling was spread all over the place.

Don’t worry about the mess sir, we have this awesome landfill we use, said a different strange human.

The woman with the sprocket was being transported out by humans. It was a sight to be seen. She was knocked out but looked alright. There were no bots of any size. There were bright colors, radical hair styles, and unnecessary sunglasses, but absolutely no bots! His broken clocks were strewn all around him, frozen in time. Part of his package included free lodging, his very own house. He wondered how his contract would work out in 1984 and what house he would be able to rebuild all of his clocks in. The woman was being put into a, no it cannot be, an actual non flying automobile!

“I’m with her,” Ibraham lied, for the first time in his life. He didn’t know anyone here, and likely neither did she, so why not do the old fashioned buddy system until they figured things out.