Saturday, July 10, 2010
Why Sporks Are Stupid
Why Sporks Are Stupid, a Short Story by K.A. Schjang
Around a fire, six men sat, 2 with spoons to eat their chili, 2 with forks to eat their chili, and 2 with knives to eat raw animals like bad asses. One of the Spooners said, "If you were stranded out in the wilderness, what would you bring to eat food with? A spoon, a knife or a fork? Surely a spoon! It's the most logical!" The second Spooner agreed. The Forkers protested loudly, "No, no! A spoon cannot spear meat!" The Knifers continued to eat their raw meat without a word. One of the Spooners had a moment of creativity and said, "I know! I would put all three of them together to have the best of all worlds!" The second Spooner and the Forkers agreed loudly, cheering and raising their utensils to rejoice and clink them together. Then, the Knifers got up and knifed them.
Around a fire, six men sat, 2 with spoons to eat their chili, 2 with forks to eat their chili, and 2 with knives to eat raw animals like bad asses. One of the Spooners said, "If you were stranded out in the wilderness, what would you bring to eat food with? A spoon, a knife or a fork? Surely a spoon! It's the most logical!" The second Spooner agreed. The Forkers protested loudly, "No, no! A spoon cannot spear meat!" The Knifers continued to eat their raw meat without a word. One of the Spooners had a moment of creativity and said, "I know! I would put all three of them together to have the best of all worlds!" The second Spooner and the Forkers agreed loudly, cheering and raising their utensils to rejoice and clink them together. Then, the Knifers got up and knifed them.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Major Change
Major Change
— 1 —
If there ever was an awkward human being then it would certainly be Elderlon Anders, known as Lon to those who deemed her name too strange and unlikely. Lon, the typical young adult, was doing what she did best — nothing. This nothing consisted of writing lyrics in her journal and listening to her iPod at the most deafening level; since there was no other way to do such a thing. However, if her ears had not been vibrating from the waves of sound threatening to make her deaf at the age of 23, she would have heard the approach of her best friend, and accomplice, Mykyro, another unlikely name; sanity was not something attributed to either of their parental units.
"Hey, face!" Lon felt a nice, smooth smack at the base of her neck. Of course, as reaction would have it, she simply sat still: contemplating the way she was slapped and it proved quite familiar; who else would choose the base of the neck when the back of the skull was much more rewarding? Mykyro, that’s who.
Without flinching, Lon removed the ear buds from her ears, pressed pause, and slowly glanced up and over at the fair skinned and auburn haired young woman.
"May I help you, dear girl?"
"You can listen to me."
"I choose not to," was Lon’s humorless and monotone reply; as though passiveness was the only emotion she knew. Mykyro went on without acknowledging Lon’s limp refusal.
"I’m feeling a party coming on. Right after graduation. Something non-traditional."
"A party is traditional," Lon interjected upon a sigh.
"You’re killing my inspiration. Maybe I’ll just keep the planning to myself. Apparently someone is cranky. Shouldn’t you be more excited that you’re graduating in a few days?"
"I suppose I could be elated, but, possibly, five years of drudgery through English degree has milked me of any sense of joy."
"Please don’t. I’ve had enough professors regurgitate lessons lined with bitterness. Five years. Can’t imagine you ten years from now."
"Rewind. Repeat."
"Why are we talking about nothing, really?"
"Rewind. Repeat."
"Good day to you," Mykyro said as she headed off back where she came from. She would never understand why she had ever befriended such a sour individual.
— 2 —
As was expected, Lon was camped out on the bench outside of the library — doing nothing. The treble blessed others ears as well as hers as she turned her iPod up to its highest peak. Mykyro, seemingly attracted to her friend’s habitual and solitary nature; as opposed to Mykyro’s outgoing and seasonally positive nature that countered, complimented and offset Lon’s, she felt the need to greet the girl at least once a day. A duty done is a deed for good, right?
The resounding smack, delivered by Mykyro’s own hand, was drowned amidst the music engulfing Lon’s mind. Patiently, slowly, methodically, emotionlessly, Elderlon Anders removed the ear buds.
"May I help you, child?"
"You can list—" Mykyro started.
"No," Lon replied.
"Or you can just sit. Anyway! I won’t mention the party, but I’m running out of conversation topics. You never really start out a conversation." A long silence ensued afterward until Mykyro decided to break it instead of her sanity.
"What are you thinking," she asked, head canted to the side. To Mykyro’s dismay, she watched Lon sloppily write these words on her lyric sheet, right where the chorus would have been:
I’m thinking it.
If I were to speak it
it would be out loud
and thoughts they would
no longer be.
They would be words.
So, thoughts they will remain.
Mykyro stood to her feet and returned the way she came, muttering, "…Your chorus doesn’t even rhyme!"
—3 —
The heat curled about young and older bodies in swirls of spiked fire as the men and women, peppered here and there with older ladies and gents, crowded down the stairs outside of the auditorium to the tunnel that they would proceed through to get to their final graduate destination in their caps and gowns of solid black.
As they trickled into the large and unimpressive tunnel, Elderlon Anders and Mykyro followed behind the rest of the Liberal Arts students, graduates-to-be.
"It’s hot and it’s taking forever," moaned Mykyro.
"No, five years is forever."
"Try twelve," came the random voice of a random older lady who was quite tired of extremely young adults complaining about half a decade compared to her decade plus.
"Twelve," Lon questioned. "You’d think you would have gotten the clue at year seven." She was unable to comment further, thanks to the sharp look of her taller friend.
"Rest your eyes from all that staring, kid," Lon said in order to assuage the fire seeping from the young woman’s eyes. "You’ll thank me later when you can sleep through the ceremony without strained eyeball muscles."
"You can strain your eyes," Mykyro asked; as if Lon offered the answer to worldwide disease.
"I don’t know," Lon smirked and pointed to the science graduates-to-be standing behind their respective banner. "You could ask them maybe. That’s if anyone could suffer through Biology."
"No thanks. Science makes me queasy."
The sound of the organ spiraled into the air like a horror movie that favored major chords at random intervals.
"Creepy," Lon said in a low tone. "Just creepy."
They marched on, patience pushed past the breaking point. The crowd could be heard but not seen — the scenery consisted of open doors, walls and coffin shaped boxes.
Mykyro scooted quickly back in line as the "line police" — who had been named thus at check in when the chosen ladies and men for the duty barked at students standing in globs instead of single file; they did not find Lon’s pointed retort that Liberal Arts students preferred not to conform to the conservative norm of linear arrangement funny nor important — made their way past her.
"How long is this tunnel," Mykyro asked upon a sigh.
"Long enough to convince me that they’re leading us to an arena for some Gladiatoresque competition." This actually brought a smile to Lon’s face as she offered these words. "You know? As if sucking thousands of dollars out of us yearly is not good enough."
"Well," Mykyro interjected. "They call it higher education for some reason or another. Something has to be high, besides the students."
"So, they sacrifice solid and intuitive education for money?"
"Of course. Don’t be rhetorical," Mykyro answered in feigned haughtiness. As they saw the front of the line approaching they spotted students being handed cards. Lon and Mykyro found it odd that only a few students were gaining these cards and when they did receive the card their faces registered wide eyed shock and they soon slipped into passiveness, but their eyes still looked like strobe lights.
"Um…" Mykyro muttered as she glanced from the students to Lon. Lon put her finger to her lips and motioned for Mykyro to keep quiet. Keeping an eye out for the line police she sauntered up next to the students behind the Fine Arts banner. She received some odd looks, but curiosity kept her moving. As a student was handed a card, Lon glanced over inconspicuously to read the card in the girl’s hand. The gasp in Lon’s mind was echoed from the girl’s lips; who clasped a hand over her mouth and feigned a coughing fit. The card read:
You have been selected.
A single student from every college will survive.
Only ONE.
Careful to keep your composure
And your face mild
For escape is futile
As well as rescue.
Attempts to run will be limited
By a much quicker death.
Congratulations!
Lon walked backwards slowly, melting into the line while looking about for anyone who might have seen her curious behavior. When she reached Mykyro and began to speak she heard the panicked cry of the girl who had gasped when she received the card. Apparently, she could not compose herself very well. The young woman turned and tripped and ripped through the crowd, but, as humor would have it, a line policeman called to another and the sound of a gun brought the girl down.
Havoc broke loose.
Mykyro, looking lost, felt her hand being yanked roughly by Lon, who was ducking and dodging through the students as shots rang out and students fell. The sounds of cheering and jeering came from the auditorium the two never even got to see and a voice rang out loudly over the speakers.
"Mary Jameson, what is your major?"
A much less booming, trembling voice came next, riddled with defeat and fear. "English…" came the trailing reply.
"What will you do for the world," came the booming voice once more.
On a sniffling reply, Mary said, "Write poetry."
"Kill her," was the crowd’s response in loud unison. One could only hope that Mary had a large family with much larger voices of protest.
"Mary, English major, meet Donna, Law major. Finish her!"
As Lon and Mykyro tried to escape, bullets coursed overhead. They never saw the end of the tunnel and the beginning of it they saw twice before a bullet’s darkness shut out the sun.
— 4 —
Elderlon Anders was doing her most favorite thing — nothing — iPod blaring, pencil flying along the sheet of lyric paper until she paused, expecting the smack to the base of her neck seconds before it was introduced to her smooth skin. Out came the ear buds.
"May I help you, woman?"
"You could—"
"Don’t ask."
"Just sit then. Or, if you have tired of me talking, tell me what you’re thinking."
Long pause.
"I’m thinking I should have changed my major."
— 1 —
If there ever was an awkward human being then it would certainly be Elderlon Anders, known as Lon to those who deemed her name too strange and unlikely. Lon, the typical young adult, was doing what she did best — nothing. This nothing consisted of writing lyrics in her journal and listening to her iPod at the most deafening level; since there was no other way to do such a thing. However, if her ears had not been vibrating from the waves of sound threatening to make her deaf at the age of 23, she would have heard the approach of her best friend, and accomplice, Mykyro, another unlikely name; sanity was not something attributed to either of their parental units.
"Hey, face!" Lon felt a nice, smooth smack at the base of her neck. Of course, as reaction would have it, she simply sat still: contemplating the way she was slapped and it proved quite familiar; who else would choose the base of the neck when the back of the skull was much more rewarding? Mykyro, that’s who.
Without flinching, Lon removed the ear buds from her ears, pressed pause, and slowly glanced up and over at the fair skinned and auburn haired young woman.
"May I help you, dear girl?"
"You can listen to me."
"I choose not to," was Lon’s humorless and monotone reply; as though passiveness was the only emotion she knew. Mykyro went on without acknowledging Lon’s limp refusal.
"I’m feeling a party coming on. Right after graduation. Something non-traditional."
"A party is traditional," Lon interjected upon a sigh.
"You’re killing my inspiration. Maybe I’ll just keep the planning to myself. Apparently someone is cranky. Shouldn’t you be more excited that you’re graduating in a few days?"
"I suppose I could be elated, but, possibly, five years of drudgery through English degree has milked me of any sense of joy."
"Please don’t. I’ve had enough professors regurgitate lessons lined with bitterness. Five years. Can’t imagine you ten years from now."
"Rewind. Repeat."
"Why are we talking about nothing, really?"
"Rewind. Repeat."
"Good day to you," Mykyro said as she headed off back where she came from. She would never understand why she had ever befriended such a sour individual.
— 2 —
As was expected, Lon was camped out on the bench outside of the library — doing nothing. The treble blessed others ears as well as hers as she turned her iPod up to its highest peak. Mykyro, seemingly attracted to her friend’s habitual and solitary nature; as opposed to Mykyro’s outgoing and seasonally positive nature that countered, complimented and offset Lon’s, she felt the need to greet the girl at least once a day. A duty done is a deed for good, right?
The resounding smack, delivered by Mykyro’s own hand, was drowned amidst the music engulfing Lon’s mind. Patiently, slowly, methodically, emotionlessly, Elderlon Anders removed the ear buds.
"May I help you, child?"
"You can list—" Mykyro started.
"No," Lon replied.
"Or you can just sit. Anyway! I won’t mention the party, but I’m running out of conversation topics. You never really start out a conversation." A long silence ensued afterward until Mykyro decided to break it instead of her sanity.
"What are you thinking," she asked, head canted to the side. To Mykyro’s dismay, she watched Lon sloppily write these words on her lyric sheet, right where the chorus would have been:
I’m thinking it.
If I were to speak it
it would be out loud
and thoughts they would
no longer be.
They would be words.
So, thoughts they will remain.
Mykyro stood to her feet and returned the way she came, muttering, "…Your chorus doesn’t even rhyme!"
—3 —
The heat curled about young and older bodies in swirls of spiked fire as the men and women, peppered here and there with older ladies and gents, crowded down the stairs outside of the auditorium to the tunnel that they would proceed through to get to their final graduate destination in their caps and gowns of solid black.
As they trickled into the large and unimpressive tunnel, Elderlon Anders and Mykyro followed behind the rest of the Liberal Arts students, graduates-to-be.
"It’s hot and it’s taking forever," moaned Mykyro.
"No, five years is forever."
"Try twelve," came the random voice of a random older lady who was quite tired of extremely young adults complaining about half a decade compared to her decade plus.
"Twelve," Lon questioned. "You’d think you would have gotten the clue at year seven." She was unable to comment further, thanks to the sharp look of her taller friend.
"Rest your eyes from all that staring, kid," Lon said in order to assuage the fire seeping from the young woman’s eyes. "You’ll thank me later when you can sleep through the ceremony without strained eyeball muscles."
"You can strain your eyes," Mykyro asked; as if Lon offered the answer to worldwide disease.
"I don’t know," Lon smirked and pointed to the science graduates-to-be standing behind their respective banner. "You could ask them maybe. That’s if anyone could suffer through Biology."
"No thanks. Science makes me queasy."
The sound of the organ spiraled into the air like a horror movie that favored major chords at random intervals.
"Creepy," Lon said in a low tone. "Just creepy."
They marched on, patience pushed past the breaking point. The crowd could be heard but not seen — the scenery consisted of open doors, walls and coffin shaped boxes.
Mykyro scooted quickly back in line as the "line police" — who had been named thus at check in when the chosen ladies and men for the duty barked at students standing in globs instead of single file; they did not find Lon’s pointed retort that Liberal Arts students preferred not to conform to the conservative norm of linear arrangement funny nor important — made their way past her.
"How long is this tunnel," Mykyro asked upon a sigh.
"Long enough to convince me that they’re leading us to an arena for some Gladiatoresque competition." This actually brought a smile to Lon’s face as she offered these words. "You know? As if sucking thousands of dollars out of us yearly is not good enough."
"Well," Mykyro interjected. "They call it higher education for some reason or another. Something has to be high, besides the students."
"So, they sacrifice solid and intuitive education for money?"
"Of course. Don’t be rhetorical," Mykyro answered in feigned haughtiness. As they saw the front of the line approaching they spotted students being handed cards. Lon and Mykyro found it odd that only a few students were gaining these cards and when they did receive the card their faces registered wide eyed shock and they soon slipped into passiveness, but their eyes still looked like strobe lights.
"Um…" Mykyro muttered as she glanced from the students to Lon. Lon put her finger to her lips and motioned for Mykyro to keep quiet. Keeping an eye out for the line police she sauntered up next to the students behind the Fine Arts banner. She received some odd looks, but curiosity kept her moving. As a student was handed a card, Lon glanced over inconspicuously to read the card in the girl’s hand. The gasp in Lon’s mind was echoed from the girl’s lips; who clasped a hand over her mouth and feigned a coughing fit. The card read:
You have been selected.
A single student from every college will survive.
Only ONE.
Careful to keep your composure
And your face mild
For escape is futile
As well as rescue.
Attempts to run will be limited
By a much quicker death.
Congratulations!
Lon walked backwards slowly, melting into the line while looking about for anyone who might have seen her curious behavior. When she reached Mykyro and began to speak she heard the panicked cry of the girl who had gasped when she received the card. Apparently, she could not compose herself very well. The young woman turned and tripped and ripped through the crowd, but, as humor would have it, a line policeman called to another and the sound of a gun brought the girl down.
Havoc broke loose.
Mykyro, looking lost, felt her hand being yanked roughly by Lon, who was ducking and dodging through the students as shots rang out and students fell. The sounds of cheering and jeering came from the auditorium the two never even got to see and a voice rang out loudly over the speakers.
"Mary Jameson, what is your major?"
A much less booming, trembling voice came next, riddled with defeat and fear. "English…" came the trailing reply.
"What will you do for the world," came the booming voice once more.
On a sniffling reply, Mary said, "Write poetry."
"Kill her," was the crowd’s response in loud unison. One could only hope that Mary had a large family with much larger voices of protest.
"Mary, English major, meet Donna, Law major. Finish her!"
As Lon and Mykyro tried to escape, bullets coursed overhead. They never saw the end of the tunnel and the beginning of it they saw twice before a bullet’s darkness shut out the sun.
— 4 —
Elderlon Anders was doing her most favorite thing — nothing — iPod blaring, pencil flying along the sheet of lyric paper until she paused, expecting the smack to the base of her neck seconds before it was introduced to her smooth skin. Out came the ear buds.
"May I help you, woman?"
"You could—"
"Don’t ask."
"Just sit then. Or, if you have tired of me talking, tell me what you’re thinking."
Long pause.
"I’m thinking I should have changed my major."
America + Starbucks = Cult
America + Starbucks = Cult
Drusawna was still in love with America, but what she loved much more was making fun of it and its customs and awkward, but mostly lovable people. She was sitting in a coffee shop; the cult favorite by the name of Starbucks. She had only been back in the States for a week, but already, on her three visits she had found that there were long time regulars that not only talked to the baristas and cashiers, but talked to every customer as if they had been pals for years. At first, she had felt quite odd and awkward and out of the loop, but that was changed, however, when suddenly, she was accosted by a blue haired older woman.
"Excuse me," the woman said, tapping her cane against the carpeted floor and eying Drusawna as if she had just committed a great offense. Drusawna, being the sweet and kind sort of young lady she was, looked up from her newspaper (The New York Times, very informative, but very plain language) and gave the older woman an automatic — and genuine — smile.
"Yes, ma'am?" Simple enough, yes?
"You're in my seat," said the older woman, not pleased at all that Drusawna had managed a very polite and kind smile; as opposed to the oblique scowl smeared across the other woman's face. Apparently, Drusawna had missed one aspect of the homey cult comforts that came with Starbucks: seniority seats.
"Your name is on it, ma'am? I do apologize! Dearly! I had not seen a name and it had never crossed my mind to get up and look under the chair. Perhaps they figured the names would fare better there than on the cushion where it would get rubbed off by some irreverant bottom. Pardon me, ma'am. Enjoy your seat. Hopefully the cushion is not too warm from my derriere." Another sweet smile and she got up, much to the chagrin and anger of the old woman who waved her cane about.
Drusawna walked out of the Starbucks, latte in hand. She had learned a lesson that morning: check chairs for names.
The things you learn in life.
Drusawna was still in love with America, but what she loved much more was making fun of it and its customs and awkward, but mostly lovable people. She was sitting in a coffee shop; the cult favorite by the name of Starbucks. She had only been back in the States for a week, but already, on her three visits she had found that there were long time regulars that not only talked to the baristas and cashiers, but talked to every customer as if they had been pals for years. At first, she had felt quite odd and awkward and out of the loop, but that was changed, however, when suddenly, she was accosted by a blue haired older woman.
"Excuse me," the woman said, tapping her cane against the carpeted floor and eying Drusawna as if she had just committed a great offense. Drusawna, being the sweet and kind sort of young lady she was, looked up from her newspaper (The New York Times, very informative, but very plain language) and gave the older woman an automatic — and genuine — smile.
"Yes, ma'am?" Simple enough, yes?
"You're in my seat," said the older woman, not pleased at all that Drusawna had managed a very polite and kind smile; as opposed to the oblique scowl smeared across the other woman's face. Apparently, Drusawna had missed one aspect of the homey cult comforts that came with Starbucks: seniority seats.
"Your name is on it, ma'am? I do apologize! Dearly! I had not seen a name and it had never crossed my mind to get up and look under the chair. Perhaps they figured the names would fare better there than on the cushion where it would get rubbed off by some irreverant bottom. Pardon me, ma'am. Enjoy your seat. Hopefully the cushion is not too warm from my derriere." Another sweet smile and she got up, much to the chagrin and anger of the old woman who waved her cane about.
Drusawna walked out of the Starbucks, latte in hand. She had learned a lesson that morning: check chairs for names.
The things you learn in life.
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