Shot-glass

I have a shot-glass with my name on it. It was a gift from my friend Nikki. Now I don't drink, nor have any other use for it, so I was rather perplexed when I received it in the mail. It was Christmas so Nikki was back in China with her family. If Nikki was an ordinary human being the time difference would make it difficult to get a hold of her, but since Nikki's sleep mannerisms are rather unusual, I was able to chat with on Gmail her around noon, and around 2 in the morning her time.
I had met Nikki not that much earlier. She had stayed at our house along with Angela, another Chinese friend of hers during Thanksgiving break. Before they had come to stay I had sent a couple of e-mails to them, an attempt to get to know them a little bit before I met them in person. I listed a few interests, a couple of questions, just basic information, little more than two paragraphs. Angela replied with a few sentences answering my questions, carefully not saying anything more complex than she was able to convey with her imperfect English. She was polite and friendly, if not very out of the ordinary. I got the (correct) impression that she would be pleasant company, interesting to talk to, but perhaps not someone I would strongly connect to. Nikki was quite a bit different. Her e-mail was more than a page long, explaining her tastes in music (Rock of all varieties, but primarily punk), mentioning some movies she liked, and warning me of how weird she was. She used quite a bit of slang in her E-mail. She explained that she used it to make her bad English sound good.
Over Thanksgiving holiday Nikki would frequently sleep until two or three in the afternoon. After that she would talk to Angela in Chinese. But after Angela went off to get on the computer, or go back to bed, Nikki would lie on the couch and I'd sit on a chair to the side of the room. We'd talk until after midnight. I found her to be clever, perceptive, and occasionally, despite not having been raised with English, rather poetic. I wasn't surprised to learn she used to write fiction, and was disappointed to discover she had lost interest and stopped.
Asking her why I had received my shot-glass she explained that in Chinese the word for that type of glass was the same one as tragedy. Nikki would refer to anything that was comically or ironically unfortunate as a tragedy. The glass was a very round-about joke, about me being hapless. On paper it doesn't seem funny, but actually having a shot-glass, personalized with my name on it, so removed from its original purpose, it actually is pretty funny.
I did get a better present later on. She gave me a Taoist bracelet. I've worn it every day since I received it, although I take it off to write or fiddle with it. I think my birthday present will be even better. I've gotten her to promise to write another story by then.

"Child at Heart"

Children don't have new ideas. They absorb information. From their parents. Peers. Society. Then they grow up, and they realise that quite a bit of the stuff they learned was a lie. They come up with new ideas, think new things, break free and look around. Sometimes they give up after a while and become old-hearted, unable to look at new ideas, think in new ways. Some people never even think for themselves in the first place . They still hold negative opinions about whoever they were supposed to hold negative opinions of as a child. If it happens that their parents wanted them to hate certain ethnic groups that's what they become racists. If they were disiplined for questioning authority, and were supposed to have blind respect for there country they become nationalists. Rather than use reasoning to think of new ideas they use it to rationalize defenses for there old ones. So I think it's strange to hear the phrase "child-at-heart" It's usually a positive phrase describing somebody who enjoys childish games. That doesn't make them a child-at-heart in my opinion. A true child at heart is a racist, nationalist, xenophope who can only defend his or her ideology with empty slogans and catch-phrases. He or she maintains all the lies and falsehoods they absorbed in their youth, and will never grow beyond it.

A Work of Fiction

The class was had just settled in, had taken out their folders, and were ready to have their homework checked when one of the students on a whim asked the teacher "Can you prove you aren't a work of fiction?"

"What?" Asked the teacher.

"It doesn't seem possible to prove we aren't just characters in a story. We don't think we are, but then neither do characters in stories. Our whole lives could just be part of the story"

"Well-"

"No actually I guess they probably wouldn't be. Stories usually only tell a brief part of a life. So most of the stuff we remember wouldn't have happened. This conversation might very well not be happening. One of us might just be remembering it. We'd have to remember thing that didn't happen, since we'd be created by an author after such events. We might just have fake memories and the illusion of chronology"

"You're sounding rather pretentious. Anyway, if you want to think you're a fictional character feel free to, but right now I need to check homework."

"Would it be so bad to be fictional? To know that your life might exist to be an emotionally resonate work of art? I think it might be comforting really. You might actually be more important than a real one. Somtimes the death of a fictional character has made more people sad than the death of a real one."

The teacher just sighed.

"I think I'll write a story about this conversation.", The student said.

"I don't think it would be that interesting."

"Well I could change it to make it more interesting of course. After all it would be a work of fiction."

Into the ground (poem)

We planted the seed
put the little pellet into the ground
in the distance a funeral
the seed and corpse, opposites of one another.
We put the seed into the ground so it would grow into a plant
grow into something that can make flowers or fruit
change from an object into somthing alive and pretty
We put it in the ground so it could fulfill a potential.
When they put the corpse in the ground it had stopped growing
It had gone from somthing alive, somthing that might create
Might be looked upon with affection,
into an object, a cruel parody of all prior creations it had made,
of the affection that anyone might have had for it.
Seed and corpse. We put them into the ground.

A Recording of a Fairy Tale Therapy Session (story)

"I don't know what to say mister."

"Well Miss Riding Hood, your mother set up these therapy sessions after your encounter with the wolf."

"Is she mad at me? Oh I'm real sorry, I won't go off the path again. I won't, promise I-I-"

sound of crying

"It's ok. Nobody is mad at you. We're just concerned. Did the wolf harm you in anyway?"

"No sir, the woodsman saved me."

"Yes I was informed of that. You must feel very grateful to him."

"I-I guess so sir..."

"You sound unsure."

"The wolf, he just wanted to eat me. And that's just what wolves do right? And being eaten isn't so bad really...."

"Surely you aren't sympathising with the wolf?"

"No! I mean it's just that...well...it's just...."

"What?"

"I can kinda understand eating something, but I can't understand what the woodsman wants. And guess I owe him something cuz he saved me but I don't know what he wants except he reminds of the wolf sometimes. The way he looks at me. And I'm kinda scared, but he isn't gonna eat me or anything so I don't understand it."


sounds of crying recommences

Why I can't go to the library anymore(story)

I had a bad day. It started when I woke up. I woke up because of my parents screaming and I won't ever be able to forget those screams cuz they were so awful. Turns out my parents were being tortured to death by an insane murderer. I got tortured a bit too but not to death cuz the murderer remembered was late for an appointment. Anyway I was so busy being tortured that I was almost late for school. It wouldn't have mattered much though cuz after I got there the school burned down and I heard a lot of people burn to death and I won't ever be able to forget those screams cuz they were so awful. They brought me to a hospital but I didn't have any injuries so they just had me meet with a psychologist. But the psychologist hated me for some reason and said that I deserved what I got anyway. So I left the hospital and went walking through town without really having any idea of where to go. And I ended up coming across the murderer. The murderer was real happy cuz he was a perfectionist and he hated an unfinished job more than anything. So I got tortured some more but didn't get killed cuz the murder was insane remember and started to hallucinate and forgot all about me. He started to scream about all the horrible things he's done and I won't ever be able to forget those screams cuz they were so awful. It started to rain so I looked for somewhere to go. I found a library and went inside. I was feeling real tired cuz of how bad my day was so I fell asleep by accident. And I got woke up by the librarian cuz I was whimpering in my sleep and you aren't allowed to make noise in a library. And she was real mad cuz I was wet and bloody and the chair I was sitting on was getting wet and bloody too. So she kicked me out of the library and told me I wasn't allowed to come back. And that's why I can't go to the library anymore.

Shapeshifter (poem)

It spent it's entire existence changing
slipping from one to body to another
twisting from one form to the next
it forgot it's name and everything else about it
just keeps changing, to make it's life more convienent,
it's whatever it's audience want's it to be
but since it can be anything it wants
it's never learned to want to be anything
and shall always be nothing at all.