Short Lit Challenge #2: Grapefruit

Grapefruit

Essay Format Entry

I like eating grapefruit, but it's definitely an acquired taste. No one else in my family is able to stand them. After some consideration I think I know why.

Grapefruit isn't just a piece of citrus; it's the perfect physical representation of a certain time of a certain kind of day. It's a little slice of that early, early morning, when the sun is just rising, the grass is steaming, it's wet and chilly, at least compared to the day ahead. There's a sharp, unpleasant quality to the light that slants through the atmosphere, like it's been strained of all its warmth and the only thing left is the bitter acknowledgment that yes, it's another day, and no, you can't stay in bed. Oh, how you want to stay in bed. It's warm there, and dark and quiet, and outside everything is sharp as a razor, but digs into you with serrated teeth. Nasty, unpleasant, and above all persistent; it won't let you go. Sure, some people can cover it with coffee, though that's never been an option for me. Other people, and this is the eternal mystery, actually enjoy this time of the day, soak it in through their pores, let it fuel them like some dark satanic power. Personally I think they might be demons.

There's no such thing as a 'morning person'. That's absurd. As you get older, at least with some people, you gravitate toward waking up earlier. It's natural, I suppose. But even so, I doubt you can like the early morning if your sanity is intact. I don't believe in souls per se, but if you can honestly find the sight of harsh sunrise light glinting off of cold concrete as the drones of the world slouch off toward their morale-destroying day of drudgery appealing, then you don't just lack a soul, you have a gaping, yawning abyssal void at the center of your being, and I wouldn't trust you with sharp objects as long as my back is turned. Fucking freak.

Back to the grapefruit though. I think the reason I like grapefruit is that they sum up that period of the day, its awful, seething power and cold calculated rage, in a handy ingestible form. I can soak up the energy, the bitterness, the acid caustic attack on the senses a little bit a time. Sharpen up, toughen up, take in the vitamins and ride out the hatred all of nature and God's kingdom feels for me, and then plow on. It's easier to cope; it's an amount of Morning that I can wrap my brain around, literally sink my teeth into.

Grapefruit is man's way of making the awful Morning his bitch. So whereas I have to huddle in warm darkness, avoiding the awful stink of a new day until a more human, more humane hour, I can seek my revenge upon the accursed daystar and its cheerful early rising minions by tearing their pulpy analogue's flesh to ribbons and grinding it down my gullet.

It's a good thing.

Legalese

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Short Lit Challenge #2

The word is 'grapefruit'.

T minus 24 hours, give or take. See you back here tomorrow.

Short Lit Challenge #1: Popcorn

Popcorn

Come on, open your eyes, let me see... ahh, that doesn't look so bad, now does it? Hmm? You took a bit of a fall, but everything seems to be in working order.

At this point you're probably wondering why you're tied to the chair. Bound and gagged, actually. Well, frankly, I had held out some small hope you'd understand when you saw how much trouble I've gone to, but then you're pretty oblivious aren't you?

I'll spell it out. You're tied to that chair because I don't love you anymore. I'm leaving you, as a matter of fact.

Don't give me that look. I tried, I really did. I put everything I had into this relationship, heart and soul. Remember how happy we were? Remember the night we met, at the late show of some godawful art film? Those were the fucking days, let me tell you. You always had the most beautiful eyes. We got along right from the start, didn't we? Shared a bag of hot popcorn and a bad, subtitled foreign film. The next week, we did the same. It was wonderful.

We got serious, as they say, and things were still fucking wonderful, weren't they? Hmm? Here, let me get that cut on your eyebrow....

Where was I? Oh. Right. We were seriously dating. Things couldn't be better. We moved in together, discussed where we wanted to be in ten years. Neither of us wanted kids. We both agreed. Wanted to live our own lives, no rugrats, no pitter-patter of little feet. No disagreement there, no sir.

You hear me, WE BOTH AGREED: NO KIDS!

Ah, but then, it was never my decision, was it? Not really. You pretended I had a say, but of course that's a lie. Did you plan it this way from the very beginning? I wonder. Or were you so weak and addled that when the little stick turned pink that you just couldn't do the right thing? The honorable thing?

“We're having a baby!” you said. You told everyone. I told you that's not what we agreed; you sulked. You screamed. You threatened to take me to court, to ruin me. You'd win, too, isn't that the funny thing? You're the liar, the ungrateful slut, but you'd win, oh yes. Because that thing in your gut has more rights than I do.

It wasn't fair. It isn't fair.

So I moved to the couch, and the torture began. The phone calls, night and day, congratulating you, as if you'd moved heaven and earth, healed the sick and the lame, multiplied the loaves and fishes, instead of lying on your back while my no-good spunk got past a layer of latex and ruined my life.

You got flowers and candy and stuffed animals and I got the shaft and it just couldn't get better for you, could it? Weeks went by and you just got fatter and happier. That wasn't enough though; I had to be happy too. God forbid if I wasn't happy. God forbid if I wanted a life, if I didn't want to spend the next two decades doing hard time raising your fucking kid. I wish you'd cheated on me. I wish it was anyone else's spunk that swelled you up like a rotten pumpkin.

Then came the day you asked, no, demanded that I do something 'for the baby'. Make a nursery you said. We have room you said; we have this nice little townhouse. All we'd have to give up was the silly little home theatre. The theatre I made for you as a wedding gift. The place we went to watch movies, eat our own hot buttery popcorn, any time we liked. Just the two of us. JUST THE FUCKING TWO OF US.

Well, of course you got your way. How do you like it? I went with a sky blue theme, pink fluffy clouds. It works for a boy or a girl. The crib's over there where the couch used to be, and the concession stand I made out of kitchen counters is a changing station. You like it? Aww, good. That's good.

You might notice all the wires and little metal boxes on the wall, leading to those hollow metal pipes. See those? That's the best part, my little spark of genius. I wanted to make sure we could keep one happy memory from this room. I wanted to remember the smell of hot popcorn.

It took some work, the rewiring I mean. That many magnetrons sucks a lot of current. The circuit breaker never would have handled it.

Confused? Oh, right. You're not the technical type. Well, dear, the magnetron is what makes a microwave oven work. These walls are lined with thirty of them, and those metal tubes are called waveguides. They focus the microwaves on a given spot. If I've done my work properly, they focus right here, right at this chair. About waist high.

Ahh, now you get it. You know how a microwave works, don't you? It heats from the inside. Excites the water. The reason a popcorn kernel, er, pops, is that it has a big, fluid filled sac, right in the middle.

Remind you of anything?

Now you just sit there and relax. I'm going to pop out, get some salt and butter from the kitchen. Should be back in a couple of minutes, tops.

After all, nothing's worse than burnt popcorn, is it?

Word Count: 911

Jerry Falwell: Fag-Enabler

Oh my various non-existent gods this makes me want to laugh so hard my gut aches. Well, ok, it already ached, which is the sole reason I'm not laughing so hard that it would, err, otherwise ache. I guess I'm in for pain either way really.

http://patriotboy.blogspot.com/2007/05/lord-works-in-mysterious-ways.html

Fred Phelps, man, is there anyone he doesn't hate? I'm beginning to wonder.

Short Lit Challenge #1

The word is 'popcorn'.

T-minus 23 hours.

Short Lit Challenge: What Hath God Wrought?

In order to sharpen my rusty creative writing as well as stave off boredom and clear out some of the mental sludge that idleness has left in my brain, I am submitting myself to a small torturous experiment. Each day, one of my so-called friends, either at random or in some rotation I have yet to determine, will give me a random word. In the English language; I feel I have to specify because I know people who speak German and I'm not about to try and tackle a thirty-five syllable word for the angst you feel when the guy ahead of you in line at the grocery store gets the last bagel. Don't look at me like that; I'm sure they HAVE a word for such a thing.

(Cue Don Henley: "I love those Bavarians... so meticulous.")

At any rate, that's the plan. I think a reasonable goal is, oh, five hundred words minimum, one assignment per day, with results to be posted here for maximum humiliation. Like all collegiate slackers I need to build in a safety valve, so I'm allowed to skip one assignment every two weeks without cause, and one assignment every two weeks for cause, either by virtue of sickness/emergency or with the consent of the person who gave me the word, who then gets the next spot in the rotation. If I fail two assignments in a row, it goes to the next person and I'm subject to public ridicule.

So, to summarize.

1) One word given to me each day by a 'friend'.
2) A short work, preferably fiction, of about five hundred words shall be written on that topic or primarily concerning that word.
3) That work shall be displayed the next day
4) One absence allowed per 14 days without cause.
5) One absence per 14 days with cause or consent.
6) In the event of one failure, the word-giver gets the next crack at an assignment; two in a row and it moves to the next sadist.

Well, that sets me up for a nice fall.

Hmm

Just experimenting with fonts and such here.

It's Three A.M. I Must Be Lonely

Shit. Now I've got that damn song in my head.