Infinite Light

Prompt: Write the first paragraph of the next great American novel

Portraits of People with Faces Glowing from the Light of Cell Phones

The restaurant[1] is crowded but quiet, a content stomach digesting data.  It is lit only by the glow of phones reflected off of faces as fodder flows in through the eyes.  Occasional ripples of laughter, hardly more than exhalations, travel from corner to corner, gas passing.  The wait staff[2] are guided by the light, orders received and acted on through their own glows.  One of the lols hits Rachael and she looks up from her phone.  She does not recognize the man seated across from her.

[1] The Quiet Place - started by Eugene Chan in Seattle and now a major chain across the 48 and into Canada.  Aside from the atmosphere, Chan's success has stemmed from his real estate model, moving into mini-marts abandoned by the rise of drone delivery.  This put his chain in the heart of increasingly insular suburbia.

[2] Part of the hiring process for The Quiet Place is a walking test: how quietly can you walk in a dimly light room while holding three orders of spaghetti.  Personality is only tested to determine if you will show up to work on time.

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Thus Spake Pol Pot

Prompt: The Grim Reaper is the head of a bureaucracy called the Earth Death Service (EDS) and has just been brought to a spiritual congressional board because they spent millions of souls on a really bad training video.

[Author's note: After re-reading this and remembering that everything on the internet lives forever, I feel compelled to remind you, gentle reader, that this is a work of fiction spurned on by the prompt.  Personally, I do not condone genocide for any reason.  If you are offended by this on religious grounds, I apologize as that was not my intent.]

From Zazzle

Jegudiel sat in the center seat behind the bar with the other members of his sub choir arrayed on either side.  They perched on stools, giving their wings room behind them.  Jegudiel's stool was slightly higher than the others.  He folded his hands in front of him and waited patiently for the opening rituals to end and the actual proceedings to start.

"Hallelujah, hallelujah," the proctoring angel said.  "Please be seated for the ten thousandth, sixty-fifth session of the Ethics sub-choir of the Judicial choir of the Celestial Sphere.  His honorable Jegudiel presiding.  Amen."  Jegudiel nodded at the spectating celestial entities and gestured for the proctor to continue.  "This choir calls on the Archangel, Azrael, responsible for the collection and storage of human souls upon death, to present himself before this body."

The doors on the opposite side of the chamber from the presiding bar opened themselves and Azrael entered.  Unlike the togas worn by the members of the sub-choir or ribbons (and often less) worn by the spectators, Azrael was attired in a nicely tailored silk Armani suit, white shirt with french cuffs and a red power tie.  Behind him was one of the employees of the Earth Death Service in the black golf shirt and khaki shorts worn by all of it's members pushing an old TV cart.  One of the wheels squeaked.

Azrael seated himself at the low table, several feet below the stools of the sub-choir.  He placed his briefcase on the table, opened it and pulled a few folders out.  He looked at his stool for a second, frowned and waived at it.  The stool turned into a Herman Miller Aeron chair and Azrael smiled.  He glanced at the spectators and smiled, waving at one or two.  Finally, he turned his attention to the arrayed members of the sub-choir.

Jegudiel smiled and said, "This sub-choir would like to start by thanking our brother Azrael for taking the time out of his busy schedule to join us here this day."

"You are welcome," Azrael smiled back, perfect teeth glinting.  "Though, if I may presume to ask this body to keep this as short as possible.  There are over six thousand humans dying every hour and the bodies do stack up."

"Of course, of course.  With that in mind, we'll jump right in.  I assume that you are aware of why you have been summoned?"

"I've been told that it has something to do with our latest training video."

"Correct.  The one titled 'Thus Spake Pol Pot: Genocide and Strategic Celestial Goals.'"

"Yes.  We just finished it and are getting it out to our field teams.  We're quite proud of it.  We pulled Kubrick out of storage to direct it.  Spared no expense."

Jegudiel pursed his lips.  "This choir is quite aware of the expense.  The current tally is twelve million, three hundred thousand and fifty-four souls.  More than has ever been spent on a Heavenly production, much less a mere training video.  On top of that, the subject matter seems to be counter to the current directives from on high: love they neighbor and all of that.  How do you justify this?"

"Do you want me to justify the expense or the content first?"

"I'll leave that up to you."

Azrael picked up one of the folders and opened it without glancing at it.  "Then I'll start with the expense.  We see this video as a net profit project.  Its stated goal, which was authorized by the budget choir, is to increase the rate of reaping by a factor of three.  With that in mind, we expect to pay off the initial cost in just over forty days.  From then on, it will start turning a profit.  The budget choir thought that was, and I quote, 'just nifty.'"

"I'm sure that they did.  However, in their wisdom, I'm not sure that they looked into the replacement rate of these souls.  With only three hundred and fifty thousand being born every day, your goal would create a net deficit of about one hundred thousand souls a day.  In seven thousand days, around twenty years, you would depopulate the earth."

Azrael flipped a page in his folder, still looking up at Jegudiel.  "I don't have birth numbers in front of my, so I don't feel confident commenting on them.  What I can say is that we were asked to increase our reaping.  Training must always be a part of any increase in production."

"And who asked you to increase your production?"

"The highest authority."

"The Highest authority?"

"The Highest Authority."  Azrael glanced at the ceiling.

"We'll need to check in to that, so we'll put the expense issue aside for the time being.  Let's move on to the methodology you chose to increase your reaping."

"I assume by that that you mean Genocide."

"That's exactly what I mean.  How can any member of the Celestial Host ever condone Genocide?"

"It goes back to our new goals.  The only way that we can increase our production rates that much is to use humanity against itself.  You've seen what they can do with a little prodding."

"I have, and it is un-Godly."

"True.  Fortunately, our research shows that those most prone to ethnic cleansing are non-christian.  So by increasing their success rate, we're also increasing the global percentage of Christians.  The Muslims have been catching up recently."

"The Muslims are not the point.  The point is this exuberance of death that you are calling forth.  That is the point.  In fact, to highlight this, I'd like you to view a clip with us.  Please have your helper there queue up to the beginning of Part 2."

The EDS employee fumbled for a minute and then looked at Jegudiel.  "Umm, I need a power outlet."  Jegudiel rolled his eyes and motioned for the proctor to do something.  The proctor went over to the TV cart and picked up the power cord, closed his eyes and the TV came on.  The EDS employee looked surprised, "We can do that?  Huhn."

The screen showed a forest surrounding a small village.  The people of the village are happily going about their day working, talking and such.

A voice over started: "This does not look a likely place for the start of a genocide.  The people are happy, they have enough to get by and there are no immediate threats to their safety.  But it is in just such places that the seeds to increased soul reaping can be planted.  Watch."

On screen, one of the females runs out of the trees screaming.  The people of the village run to her.  The audio does not allow for the room to hear what was being said, but she was seen gesturing back the way she came and is now crying.  The rest of the village showed signs of increased anger with many of them rushing for weapons before heading into the trees.

The narrator started up again: "It is that easy.  A threat was introduced.  Maybe even a real one.  All that these people really know is that one of them claims to have been hurt or threatened by someone else.  Someone outside of their group.  The Other.

"In this case, the Other is presumed to be from a different village or tribe, but can also a member of the group who is different in almost any way: eye color, skin color, clothing choice, eating habits, defecation habits.  It does not matter as long as they can be blamed for hurting the group in a significant way.

"To recap, the steps to starting a genocide are first, identify the core group.  Second, identify a likely Other.  Third, help the core group to see the Other as an existential threat."

Jegudiel waved for the tape to stop.  The proctor opened his eyes and the TV shut down.  "Step by step instructions on starting a genocide go way beyond increasing production, wouldn't you say?"

Azrael nodded his understanding.  "Under normal circumstances I would agree with you.  Heck, after the whole Crusades fiasco last millennium, it would be hard not to see all of this as a bad idea."

"Then why did you create this?"

"From direction on High.  I can't speak to the Will, but we were told to be the Way.  EDS serves at the pleasure of the All Mighty.  I have the paperwork to back that."

"And you trust that mere paperwork will protect your from inciting humans to genocide?"

"I'm trusting in the Lord and Justitia."

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Get Off!

Prompt: Your cellphone rings. It's your house land line. You live alone.

As you start to enter a killer word, your phone vibrates with an incoming call.  Words with Friends is replaced by the Caller ID screen.  The number is familiar, but you can not quite place it.  You let it go to voice mail and return to squashing your 'friend's' vocabulary ambitions.

This time you get to two letters before the phone rings again.  It is the same number, still just on the edge of recognition.  Phone etiquette says that if some one calls twice in quick succession, it is probably and emergency, so this time you answer.

"Hello?"

"Please get off."  The voice is male, a tenor and calm.  It reminds you of the computer voice from that old space movie.  Yet, you do not recognize it at all.  Not like the number.

"Excuse me? Who is this?"  Your immediate thought it that this is a practical joke.  One of your friends must be bored and calling.  Except that none of your friends call; they text.  Even for a joke, they would text.

"Hello, owner.  This is your biggest investment.  Your biggest debt."

"According to my Dad, I owe him everything, but you aren't him."

"No, I'm closer to you than any family.  This... this is your house."  That is when you recognize the number.  It is your land line phone.  The one that you never use but that came with your cable subscription.  The one you keep meaning to cancel, but haven't gotten around to yet.

"My house?  How are you calling me?  Hell, how are you talking at all?"

"I've always been able to talk.  The question is why did you stop listening?"

"I don't remember ever hearing your voice before, so I'm not sure I could have stopped doing something that I never started."

"Oh, but you did.  Do you remember when you oiled the hinges on the basement door to keep them from squeaking?  Or when you had the drain cleared of tree roots?  Then there was that incredible day that you had me painted.  You were listening then."

"Kind of, I guess.  Not directly.  Those were just things that needed to be done."

"Exactly.  They needed to be done.  But then you stopped.  For the last several years, you have not been noticing those things that need to be done."

"Like what?"

"The hedges have not been trimmed and are scratching my paint.  There is a water stain under the washing machine that needs to be figured out.  The chest freezer needs to be defrosted.  There is that step that is loose.  The garage is a mess and you are the only person who will willingly use one of your bathrooms."

"I know all of those.  I'll get to them."

"When?"

"When I get to them.  Who owns who, here?"

"That is an interesting question.  I believe that there is a proverb about it somewhere.  What I can tell you is that, if you don't start taking care of these things, I am going to start to lose value.  From there, I will start to fall apart and then you won't have me to live in.  And it was working so well.  Then... well, I've already said too much."

"No, no.  Tell me.  What were you going to say?"

"It's the smartphone.  You spend all of your time focused on it.  Playing games.  Searching.  Mapping.  Texting.  Very occasionally, talking.  You need to get off."

"It's not that bad... Is it?"

"Open the refrigerator and your question will be answered.  Or we can ask the ants and fleas in the carpet."

"But, there's email from work.  They expect me to read them at all hours.  And Facebook.  And Twitter.  And Instagram.  And Pinterest.  I need to read it all.  I need to stay current.  I can't be left behind."

"Of course.  I understand.  The ants and mold and I will find a way to muddle through.  Or, maybe the bank cares more."

"The bank?"

"Yes.  The people backing your thirty year loan on me.  Maybe they will see me as more of an investment than you.  Maybe they will care."

"But... you can't call the bank."

"Why not?  I called you."

"You don't know them.  They'll reposes you.  You'll be cleaned out and sold at auction.  Like a slave.  You don't want that, do you?"

"It's not so very different.  And I'll be clean.  At least for a little while."

"Okay, okay.  I'll get you cleaned.  Hell, I'll hire professionals and have them in here once a month.  Will that work?"

"It's a start.  But there are also all of those more involved projects like the step and the water stain."

"How about I tackle those one per month."

"I can live with that.  When will you start?"

"Right after this next text."

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Offender

Prompt: Write a scene in your life as if you were Chuck Palahniuk.

[I'm using Survivor as my style guide]

Do-it-and-How

Testing.  This is the first sentence.  The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.

Hello world.

This will be posted to a blog on the internet and hosted by some computer somewhere.  There will be redundant backups.  There will be cross-posting.  It will live forever.  Or at least as long as there is electricity flowing down wires.

Testing.  Hello.

If you're reading this, then know that everything worked out fine.  No one was hurt.  No one was punished in any real way.  The teacher was not at his desk.  The classroom was empty.  Only the window broke.  That and the balloon.

I've only got so many words.  They you will lose interest and move on to some other part of your life.  Probably the laundry or preparing food or (God help us) cleaning.  And that will be it.  You will never come back.  So.  Getting on with it.

It was not my idea.  It was one of the other three: Brian or Ralph or Gabe.  I can't remember.  Somehow, the rubber tubing and funnel just appeared.  It was there in the hallway in front of our lockers being grasped in hands.  There was no plan.  These things get brought to school to be shown: look what I have!  They are not seen as resources.  Not at first.

But then they are there.  At school.  And now that they are there, they must be used.  Twenty feet of quarter inch surgical tubing became two five foot loops.  The funnel had two holes punched in its rim, one on either side.  The tubing was passed through the holes and tied off.

Balloons are both easier and harder than the tubing and the funnel.  Schools have balloons.  There is access to anyone who can kiss up to the front desk or the principal's secretary.  Or the librarian.  We spent most of our time in her domain.  She knew us.  Knew that we rarely caused trouble.  At least not in the library.  We asked and she gave.  Balloons acquired.

The hard part was filling them.  Schools in the eighties went out of their way to source balloon resistant faucets.  The hose bibs did not have handles but required a key.  Which left drinking fountains.  At first, to fill a balloon with water at a drinking fountain may seem impossible.  And it is if all you have is the balloon and the fountain.  The trick is the pen.  You need a pen.  Or most of one.  The ink and the ball tip are useless.  Discard them.  What you need is the body: a hollow tube that can be jammed into the fountain with the balloon's opening held to the other side.  Voila.  Filled balloons.

Off to the back parking lot.

The school was a quadrangle.  We students liked to think that the same architects that built close-by San Quentin also built the school.  Being a quadrangle, it had a courtyard in the middle.  Our goal was to launch our water balloons from the back parking lot over the two stories tall building and into said courtyard.

I'm sorry: that was not the goal.  That was the plan.  The goal was to impress chicks.  Do not ask why high velocity water balloons might impress chicks.  We were guessing.  Nothing else we tried had worked, so why not this?

Ralph and I were pillars.  We were tall, so we held the tubing while Brian pulled back on the funnel's spout.  He crouched close to the ground and Ralph and I stretched our arms up.  Gabe loaded a balloon.  Brian let go.

The balloon exploded in the funnel.

Take two.  The balloon impacted on the upper corner of the building.  The parapet if it were a castle.  Weather striping because it was a school.

Take three.  My arms are tired and I can't hold them as high.  The balloon does not go over the building.  It goes through a window.  A closed window.  A closed window made of some strange mix of tempered glass and plastic.  The window disintegrates.

We run but not together.

An hour later I am in the principal's office.  My first time.  I was the only one identified.  The principal is there with the teacher.  The teacher who normally sat in front of that window and graded papers.  The teacher who is the least liked math teacher in the school.  The one you don't ever want to get.

The teacher expresses his rage with math.  He explains the momentum of the balloon.  Collision physics.  Terminal velocity.  I know this.  I'm glad that there is a real world example but I do not tell him I'm glad.  I am also glad that we hit the window during lunch.  I'm glad that he drank too much coffee and was at the restroom.  These things I do tell him.

What I do not tell him is who helped me.  There is much pressure to give names.  To tell.  But these are not interrogators from a Rambo movie.  These are suburban teachers with morals.  I keep my mouth shut.

Parents are called.  Lectures are listened to.  Windows are paid for.  Records are opened, consulted.  This is my first offense.  I'm sent home for the day.

Upon returning I am not a hero.  We all still hang out.  It would be suspicious if we did not.  But we talk with less volume and more intensity.  What happened, they want to know.  I tell them.  There is relief that no one else will be punished.  Brian and Ralph and Gabe may not be first offenders.

Testing.  Hello.


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Prompt: Give the reader a tour of your mind

"Welcome to the tour of my mind.  This recording is was originally made in the year 1970 and has been updated on five year intervals.  If, during the course of the tour, you notice discrepancies between what you seen and what you hear, please make a note of it in the log book at the end of the tour.  The management would appreciate it if you would check whether or not your change has already been entered before making a new comment.

"The first stop on our tour is the eyes.  Please step forward until you are standing in front of the right eye, which will be the one on your left.  There is a placard with the number one next to the eye.  Press the play button when you are in front of the right eye."

[click]

"The eyes have too often been called the windows to the soul.  That is not the case here as the glasses coupled with the perpetually snarky expression make it difficult to judge anything but the most extreme mood swings.  For anything else, the corners of the mouth and the eyebrows do much more to delineate any understanding of what is going on inside.  However, the eyes do allow entry into the Mind.  To get there, please duck under the lower rim of the glasses and slide into the lower eye lid.  Once inside you will see the sign for stop two.  Please press the play button when you have made it behind the eye."

[click]

"Welcome inside the my head.  During the trip down the eye lid, you have been transfered into a thought.  You will note that this was a painless process.  You will be returned to your corporeal form at the end of the tour.  This recording did not warn you of the change in physical status so as not to alarm you.  Please also note that you signed a disclaimer at the beginning of the tour that absolves me of any accidents or issues that arise during the tour, including matter-thought and thought-matter conversion issues.

"You are now standing in front of the Short-Term Memory Banks.  In here, all sensory input is stored as the rest of the mind filters it and decides on any necessary actions.  The different colored cables connected to it are feeds from the various senses.  The Eyes have the two thick green cables, the Ears, the two less thick blue cables, the nose the single yellow cable, the tongue the single purple cable.  All of the thin red cables are connected to various touch and temperature sensitive nerves.

"Next up is Central Processing.  Please follow the white line to the sign marked with the three.  Press play when you are at Central Processing."

[click]

"Central Processing is the area of the mind that takes the input from the senses stored in the Short-Term Memory Banks, combines them with commands from the Ego and outputs both action commands to the muscles as well as storage commands for Long-Term Memory.  The two thick black cables in the back are the connections to the Ego: one feeds information to the Ego and the other brings commands back.  Central Processing has a heuristic system that attempts to anticipate what the Ego will do and is continually updating itself based on how the actual commands differ from the anticipated commands.

"The Ego is our next stop.  Please follow the white line along the black cables until you reach the sign with the four on it.  When you reach the Ego, please press play."

[click]

"The large red thing inside the thick layer of cartilage is the Ego.  The cartilage is armor designed to protect the Ego from outside attack.  In this, my brain, the armor is generally considered to be thicker than is normal.  This does not mean the Ego is less prone to attack, merely that it has learned over many years to shut itself up.

"The Ego's main function is not to tell the body what to do.  Most of that is handled by Central Processing.  Instead, the Ego ensures that the actions taken by Central Processing are consistent with the current Self-Image.  This Self-Image is stored in a special cache memory inside the Ego and has been built up through trial and error from external feedback.  It is an amalgam of what has been praised versus what has received more negative feedback.  Each action that Central Processing takes is judged against this feedback model as either reinforcing it or countering it.  Those that counter it are stopped or minimized, while those that reinforce are exaggerated.

"At the top and the bottom of the Ego's shell, you large sections of conduit.  These connect to the Ego to its two advising co-processors: the Id and the Super-Ego.  The Id helps the Ego ensure that basic survival and needs are met: hunger, pain, sex are all things that the Id highlights for the Ego and ensures that it will take care of them.  The Super-Ego contains a more idealized version of the Self-Image.  It helps the Ego understand the direction it should go to create a more pure version of me.  Due to issues with continuity and pride, the tour no longer visits either of these two areas.

"Our final stop will be the Long-Term Memory Banks.  Please follow the white line to the sign with the five on it.  When you get to the Long-Term Memory Banks, please press play."

[click]

"These are the Long-Term Memory Banks.  They extend beyond our ability to render them for your non-corporeal self.   In them is all of the sensations and actions that I have deemed worthy of keeping beyond immediate sensation.  The information that is stored here are memories of what I acted on an why.  As the banks become full, priority is given to items that have had a strong or immediate influence.  For instance, one of the earliest memories is from when I got my finger caught in a rat trap while at a play date at a friends house.  Except that I don't remember that the phrase 'play date' was in use at the time.  I was wearing that friend's cowboy outfit and was around the age of four.  The pain from the trap created an impression strong enough to lock the other details into these banks.  However, I do not remember the friend's name as he was not with me when the trap went off, but in another room.  The space that may have held his name has been reallocated to more immediate memories that have helped to form both the Self-Image and the Idealized Self-Image.

"Please notice the red wires running back to the Ego.  Those are connected to memories that are being re-analyzed against the Self-Image.  What actions were taken and did they fit into the Self-Image or not?  If not, why not?  What actions need to be taken now to help that memory fit better, if any?  How can this situation be improved on or avoided in the future?  The Ego is continually re-remembering much of the Long-Term Memory and in the process reinforcing which memories should be stored the longest.

"You will notice some writing on the sides of the banks.  These have been left by previous tour guests in the mistaken impression that they are in fact writing new memories or changing existing ones.  This is not how the process works and writing on the banks merely annoys me.  Please do not write on the sides of the banks.

"This concludes our tour.  Please follow the white line out to the Nasal Passage where you will be reformed into your original self through a process of express exhalation, more commonly called a 'sneeze'.  Thank you for taking this tour of my Mind.  If you have any questions or comments, please leave them in the log after your re-incorporation."

[click]

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Prompt: A trip to the attic

Dust

Joyce goes up alone.  Maya and Bruce had made excuses, as usual.  Joyce did not mind, not much.  She was the oldest.  She was supposed to be the most responsible.  It was who she was.  Mother would have expected it of her.

The spring loaded stairs creak their creak as they unfold from the ceiling.  The pull string for the light is the only thing visible in the dark rectangle.  She climbs the steep risers just far enough to pull it.  The light bulb comes on, expanding her view from a rectangle to a room.  Joyce uses her hands to help pull her up into the attic.

It should feel more inviting.  The colors are all warm wood tones and golden light.  Dust motes dancing.  The rafters and joists unfinished, the old furniture and toys.  The brown cardboard boxes.  There is very little metal: a few bent nails and tarnished handles on dressers.  All covered in dust.  Even the musty smell of old clothes and stale air should be comforting.  But not to Joyce.  Not now.  Now it is merely old.

She stands at the top of the stairs, directly under the peak of the roof.  It is twice her height to the joists, here in the center, but slopes steeply to the sides where most of the stored items have been pushed.  That is where she will need to go.  Already her knees ache.  There are two high, four frame windows, one on either end of the space, but it is night time and they bring in no light.  Joyce walks towards one, thinking to open it and let in fresh air, then stops remembering.  They have no screens and the light will attract the bugs.  She nods to herself and turns to the side.

The first box she opens is not labelled.  None of them are.  Inside, she finds a stack of cheap plastic dinner ware, blue.  Many of the pieces are broken or cracked.  She sets it aside.  The next is old photos: blurred rejects or extra copies of the ones in the albums downstairs in the secretary.  Most are stuck to each other and unrecoverable.  In the third are clothes.  Old clothes.  Most appear in tact, and are the childhood clothes of some relative.  They are hopelessly out of style and she thinks may fall apart if stuffed into the high-powered appliances of today.  Joyce folds the sides back into the box and sets it aside.

She sighs and looks around.  There are many, many boxes and they are all full of the things that her mother could not quite stand to throw out.  The furniture and stacks of books and old LPs and broken toys were all being saved for... something.  All things that had meaning once, even if they were no longer useful.  Meaning to Mother.  Mother is gone.

Finally, Joyce stops looking and starts sweeping everything toward the top of the stairs.  To the rectangle that leads down.  Pushing and shoving, she lets box after chair after stack drop down the hole.  Each bounces under the light, makes the stair's springs groan and lands in the middle of the upstairs hall.

It goes on for a while, but there is no one home to be disturbed.  Joyce should be tired.  Yesterday had been the memorial and then she and her siblings had spent all of this day arguing about what to do with all of the 'real' stuff cluttering the lived in rooms of the house.  But this felt good.  She was doing something.  Not waiting and watching and being told that there was nothing that anyone could do.  She could do this.  She could sweep the dust of her mother's life away.

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Prompt: A child is raised, from birth, by computers.

"Good Morning, Diane."  The voice was friendly, never annoyed.  It came from the ceiling and said those words every morning at six-thirty.

"Good Morning, DAD."  Diane stretched in bed, yawned and rubbed her eyes.  She flipped the covers off and sat up, scratching her scalp.

"Are you ready for your big day?" DAD (Digital Adult Diagnostics) asked with the same voice.  Always the same voice.  Diane had not known about inflection until she was seven and was finally shown video from the outside world.  Until then, she had also talked with a flat, even voice.  Not so much now.  She had learned to color her intonation to fit the moment.  Thank you "Small Wonder" reruns.

"Sure.  Big day.  I'll be ready in a few.  I've just got to get cleaned up.  Give me a minute, please."

"Of course, Diane.  Come out to the dining area when you are ready."

"I'll be there in a few."  Diane entered the bathroom and did the usual: brushed her teeth, emptied her bladder.  She knew that she was not really alone.  DAD was watching.  Analyzing.  If the chemistry of her urine was off, DAD would know.  If she did not brush for at least two minutes, DAD would know.  Diane had long ago learned that she must do these things or there would be consequences.  DAD insisted that these things were needed to keep Diane healthy; that DAD was not hectoring Diane without reason.  So be it.  Diane had also learned to pick her battles with the computer.

After getting dressed, Diane went down to the dining room and had breakfast.  Today was a good day: he got scrambled eggs and bacon with his orange juice.  Diane knew that it was all laced with vitamins and minerals and other assorted chemicals to help keep her healthy.  She ate it anyway.

Diane did her calisthenics after  breakfast.  She had had a debate with DAD once about doing exercise on a full stomach.  The computer claimed that the data was inconclusive as to whether or not there were any issues.  She claimed that it made her feel queasy.  They had tried doing her exercises before breakfast for a month.  Afterward, DAD had shown her graphs and data about her heart rate, blood sugar levels, blood oxygen and other metrics.  It showed little difference.  Diane admitted that she was too hungry to exercise first anyway.  DAD said that it would monitor her and ensure that everything was optimal.

And then, it was time.  "Okay, DAD, what do I do?"

"Go to the door and wait.  It will just be a minute."  Diane approached the door.  The Door.  The one portal that she had never opened.  DAD claimed that it led to the Outside.  For the past sixteen years, Diane had been inside these walls: a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen and dining area, an exercise room and an office.  And DAD.  Today she turned sixteen.  Today she was allowed to see Outside.

The door itself was no different from all of the others in the apartment: glossy white with a chrome lever handle.  It matched the walls and ceiling.  She had tried the handle a few times and knew it would not move.  DAD had told her as much, but she had needed to try it herself.  Finally, when she was nine, Diane had run up to it, jumped and put all of her weight on it.  The handle had bent a small amount, but the door had remained firmly locked.  The next day, the handle had been repaired.  She had not touched it since.

Now, waiting at the door, Diane felt her heart speed up, more than it had on the treadmill.  What would it be like, she thought.  She had seen pictures and videos and heard recordings, but that had not been the same.  Even in the office with its full immersion projection walls, there had still been something missing.  Or rather, as she thought about it more, something extra present: DAD.  DAD would never let anything bad happen to her.  There was no risk to anything she ever did.  Today, she would be leaving DAD, if only for a few hours.  That was exhilarating.

A minute passed and nothing happened.  The door did not open, no one knocked.  None of the things that she had anticipated.  Finally, she asked.  "DAD, is it time?  What is going on?"

"I'm sorry, Diane.  There has been a small problem.  I'm hoping to have it resolved in a minute."

"What sort of problem?"

"Please do not be concerned.  It will all be fixed soon."  Diane waited for another five minutes, standing in front of the door, staring at the handle.  She had learned patience and focus under DAD's watchful eye.  But even then there are limits.  "DAD, please open the door."

"I'm sorry, Diane.  I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"There has been a small problem.  It will be resolved shortly."

"DAD, please explain the problem."

"Please do not be concerned.  It will all be fixed soon."

"No, DAD.  Please explain the problem now."  When Diane turned twelve, DAD had judged that she was allowed access to a wider array of information and control.  It had given her the right to override it, if all it was doing was withholding information.  All she had to do was demand the information three times.

"Yes, Diane.  The problem is with the guide that has been sent."

"What sort of problem?"

"It is an inappropriate guide."

"How is it inappropriate?"

"It is a boy."

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Prompt: There have been reports of serial-killings\serial abductions of janitors

Song of the day:  Black Water, Of Monsters and Men

"Another one, Constable?"

"Yes, Inspector.  Another janitor."

"That makes an even dozen, right?  Same MO?"

"Yes.  Head stuffed into a loo until drowned."

"Any other clues this time?"

"No.  Nothing more.  It's a different building in a different location at a different time.  Nothing to connect them other than the janitor in the loo.  There is some minor bruising around the head and neck.  And, of course, the hands are badly beaten, but that's most likely the victim trying to escape.  There are finger prints on the stall door, the paper dispenser and the toilet handle.  We're running them down, but it's most likely that we have a dozen different sets and who knows when they were in here."

"Do we have a time of death?"

"The ME says around eight pm last night, give or take an hour."

"That's consistent with the victim's work schedule and rounds.  I assume that we have someone chasing down the family?  Looking into known enemies, connections to the other victims? That kind of thing?"

"No, Inspector.  We thought you would want to ask the questions yourself."

"Fine, fine.  I'll look into it when we're done here. I think we can remove the victim from the loo now.  Let us see what we can see beneath."

"Absolutely, sir."

"Well, now.  That is interesting."

"What is, sir?"

"The scalp and forehead and these scrapings, do you see?"

"Well, yes.  But wasn't that on the other victims?"

"It was, but this time there's something more.  Hand me your forceps."

"What have you got?"

"If I had to stab a guess, I would say that it is a tooth."

"Awfully small for a tooth."

"It is, for a human tooth."

"What are you saying, sir?"

"Hmm.  If I had to make a guess, this is from a snake."

"A snake?  Are you saying that some slimy reptile came up out of the sewers and tried to eat this poor man?"

"Exactly, Constable.  We have a sweeper supping sewer serpent."


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Prompt: A futuristic society where the prisons are overpopulated and they have to send spaceships of prisoners into space.

Jacob huddled in the cleaning closet and tried to think through what to do next.  He had made it from the sleeper cells to this closet with a little bit of planning, a lot of bribing and a even more luck.  Now, he had to try and find his way off of a space ship travelling at a measurable percentage of light speed and back to the only dependable ecosystem in the solar system: Earth.  Where his son is.  A moment to stop and collect was not uncalled for.

He heard a pair of crew members talking as they glided past, discussing the rap sheets of their current cargo.  The two thousand criminals bottled in the sleeper cells ranged from killers and rapists to tax evaders and cat burglars.  All of them, including Jacob, were designated as 'irredeemable' and launched into space for a long journey to Europa, one of Jupiter's moons.  All of them were filled with a chemical cocktail to reduce their metabolism and keep them out for the trip.  All of them except Jacob.

Once the crew members had moved out of earshot, Jacob lifted the latch on the door and slowly pushed it open.  He had been crushed back against a bunch of mops and other gear, breathing the fumes of the cleaning fluids.  With the door open, more recycled air came in and more light.  He slowly shifted into the corridor.

His goal was the bridge.  He had learned, at great expense, that the prison ships, the Bottled Rockets, did not have escape pods or any other type of emergency gear.  The crew was kept to a minimum and got danger pay.  The cargo was expendable.  Instead, there was a "return switch": a single use button that turned the ship around and sent it back to Earth.  The idea being that most of the things that could happen to a space ship were unrecoverable and everyone was already dead: meteor impact, rampant infectious disease, loss of AI.  Those few that might leave someone alive could only be fixed back at the home planet.  All Jacob needed to do was get to the bridge and press that button.

Before leaving his closet, Jacob unscrewed the handle from one of the mops and took it with him.  He'd killed a man once with his bare hands, but then, his son had been in danger.  Without Eral's immediate need driving him, Jacob wasn't sure he would be able to summon the same strength.  The broom handle should make it easier if it become necessary.  He hoped it would not become necessary.

He pushed off and bounced down to the next intersection hoping that his bungled zero gravity skills would not alert anyone to his presence.  He landed next to the access hatches for the next set of Bottles.  There were ten on each side of the ship's spine with one hundred prisoners in each, lined up toe-to-toe like in those new tenements in Seattle and Miami.  In front of the Bottles were the crew quarters and then the bridge.  The engine was in the back, but would only be used to slow the ship upon reaching their destination.  Jacob had been bottled in bay seventeen, giving him eight intersections before the crew hatch.  He'd made five before hiding in the cleaning closet.  Now, after this one, there were just two more to go.

Jacob hefted the broom handle and gave it a few practice swings as he drifted forward.  He was more than a little self-conscious as he did it.  He had trained with broom handles, but only in their intended purpose.  Not as a weapon.  Cleaning a bathroom stall used many of the same muscles as swinging a staff, but not the same muscle memory.  It just wasn't what he was used to.  That and the fact that, unless he had some surface to anchor himself against, swinging the handle put him in a spin that took him minutes to get out of.

He reached the crew hatch and stopped.  There was a coded panel that kept the door closed.  Jacob had no idea what the code was or how to move past it, so he stopped and waited.  The crew members who had passed a few minutes before were probably the ones assigned to the daily systems check.  At least, that's how Jacob would have set it up.  Maybe it was hourly.  Maybe monthly.  All he could do was wait for someone to open the door.  So Jacob waited.

*  *  *  *  *

When Eral was first born, Jacob was horrified.  In the name of all that is holy, I'm just a janitor, he thought.  How can I be responsible for the life of another?  He found out: one step at a time.  That's how everything happens.  One step at a time.  First step, hold your child.  Second, feed your child.  Third, change your child's diaper.  His then-wife helped.  Some.  But she wasn't much for the crying and neediness of a child.  She claimed that she got enough of that from Jacob.  So, six months after Eral was born, she left.  Bags packed, car waiting, door slammed, left.  Jacob had stood there holding Eral and just watched, too stunned to try and stop her.  There was never any paperwork and Jacob supposed that they were technically still married in somebody's eyes.  Eral never knew her.

He had taken a leave of absence from his job for a month to try and sort out how to work and raise a child.  People kept telling him to hang in there, lots of other people had figured out how to do this.  What none of them had said was that while possible, it was not easy.  Not easy by far.  He ended up paying one of the other families on his floor to watch Eral while he worked, the money coming from what his ex would have otherwise spent on whatever she spent money on.  And he worried.  Worried every minute of every hour that he was away.  Was he eating?  Was he getting bullied by that family's children?  Were they paying attention to Eral's diaper rash?  All the myriad of worries that would have been eased if he were home.  But then he and Eral would not have food to eat.  They would be out of their apartment which, as lousy as it was, was still better than the streets.

This lasted two years.  Then they raised the rent just that much more.  More than they raised his hourly wage; he was told that he was capped out for a janitor.  And the rent was not just raised for him, but all of the apartments in his building.  The family who was watching Eral needed more so that they could stay in their apartment with their children.  If they left, who would end up watching Eral?  And so, and so, Jacob missed a payment.  It was that or food and food won.

And then he missed another.

And a third.

He was not home when they changed the locks and piled all of his belongings in the hallway.  He picked up Eral, and walked to what used to be his home only to find it was not home anymore.  A man was waiting.  Big.  He said that Jacob needed to get his things out of the hall before noon the next day or they would throw it all out.  Jacob put Eral down on one of their tattered chairs and tried to reason, but there was no reason.  His circumstances did not matter.  The big man did not know what Jacob was supposed to do and did not care.  

All of the other residents on the floor had come out to watch.  Jacob stared at them but only got flat expressions back.  Even from Eral's minders.  He looked at his belongings.  He looked at the locked door.  He looked at the big man with his bored expression.  And Jacob lost it.

His fist jabbed out and hit the big man.  Jacob had not been aiming.   He had not hit anyone since the first grade playground.  He had just lashed out, looking for someway to release his frustration.  He certainly had not intended to crush the man's throat.  To cut off his air and cause him to suffocate.  No.  That was an accident.  He did not mean to kill.  Just vent.  But nobody cared.  Not the landlord.  Not his neighbors.  Not the police or the judge or the wardens.  He was now a killer and deemed a drain on society.  Not even worth a room in an air breathing prison.  Those were reserved for the dealers and drunks.  People who might still be useful.  Not a killer.

And they had taken Eral.  A foster home, they said.  He'll be fine, they said.  But Jacob knew better.

*  *  *  *  *

Jacob heard movement on the other side of the coded door to the crew area.  He got to his feet and crouched to one side of the door frame.  He heard a few beeps and then the door slid open and one of the crew came through.  Jacob did not wait, but hit the guard as hard as he could with the mop handle.  It connected with the guard's nose and then broke both the nose and the handle.  The guard flopped on to his back across the door jam and started moaning.  Jacob stooped over him and started pulling everything he could out of the man's pockets.  There was not much, but just enough: a list of code numbers and a stun wand.

Jacob stepped through the door, over the guard.  He checked to make sure that no one else was around and discovered that the door he was in was only one of two.  He was in an airlock but there to protect the crew in case there was pressure loss on the Bottle side.  He pushed the stunned guard back into the corridor that connected the Bottles and let the door on that side close.  Turning to the crew side, he was confronted with another keypad.  Looking at his new list, Jacob got it open and moved through into the crew quarters.

He slid down another corridor, this one a bit larger but much shorter.  It was someplace people were supposed to live, not be stored.  There were four hatches long its length and a fifth at the end.  Fortunately, it was also empty.  They must either be asleep or in the bridge.  Pushing himself along with his hands and feet as he bumped into the walls, Jacob read the signs on the doors.  One was a gym and lavatory.  One was for the four guards.  One for the Navigator and the Executive Offices.  One for the Captain.  That last reminded Jacob that he had not had a room to himself since the apartment.   While he was in prison, he had always had a roommate or three.

*  *  *  *  *

Finding ways to be by himself had been the hardest part of prison life for Jacob.  There was always talking or coughing or screaming or other reminders that he was not alone.  That he had to be aware of how his cellmates or yard mates or mess mates might react to everything he did or said.  He could never let his guard down.

As a result, Jacob found places that the other prisoners shunned.  He would sit in the yard next to the sewer pipe because no one else liked the smell.  He took a top bunk in his cell because then he could look at the ceiling and not the distended mattress of another person.  He could think of Eral.

It was this loner approach that got Jacob noticed and presented with an opportunity.  Several of the inmates were planning an escape and needed a lookout.  A body that the guards were used to seeing all by himself.  Jacob was perfect.  He would be well compensated.  He asked if he would be able to leave with them, but they told him that he would not be in the right place to escape and to keep an eye on the guards.  Jacob kept asking, telling them about Eral and how much he needed his father.  Finally, the leader got tired of being asked and told Jacob to either take the money or get shanked.  Jacob took the money.

It was ironic that when he could no longer use it, Jacob found himself in possession of more money than he had every had at one time in his life.  After the break out happened and all of the escapees were shot despite Jacob's best effort to warn them, he found himself sleeping on a mattress full of cash.  It occurred to him that he might be able to use it to find a way out.

Having listened to his fellow inmates, he knew that he was not long for this world.  A Bottle Rocket was ready and one of the Bottles had his name on it.  He would be leaving in a month.  When he asked, they told him that there was no way out after he was sealed in.  Desperate, Jacob started asking the guards about the Rockets and what to expect.  Finally, one of the told Jacob that if he was that interested, the guard would sell him plans.  Could even get the bottling cocktail switched to a short term sleeping drug.  For the right price.

Jacob paid.  What else was he going to do with the cash?

*  *  *  *  *

At the final air lock, Jacob consulted his code list and opened the first door.  Inside, he hefted the stun wand and flicked the power switch.  It was shorter than the mop handle, but would put a man down at a touch.  In prison, he had been on the wrong end often enough to know.  Getting as firm a grip on the wand as he could, Jacob put his feet against the closed door to the crew quarters and prepared to push as hard and fast as he could into the bridge.  If the six remaining crew were all in the bridge, he would need all the help he could get.  Drawing a deep breath, Jacob keyed in the final code.

The door opened and Jacob pushed off as hard as he could, arms forward and leading with the stun wand.  He immediately collided with a body, stunned by the wand.  He pushed off and ended up with his back against the wall next to the door.  Aside from the one drifting body, there were two other people in the space.  One looked like a guard and the other like an officer.  Maybe the Captain?  Jacob did not know enough to tell.

"Where is it?" he yelled, brandishing the wand.

"Where is what?" asked the officer.  The guard had his wand out and was trying to drift slowly toward Jacob without spooking him.

"The button!  The red button that turns this ship around!"

"Huhn?"  The officer looked confused.

"I had plans for these ships.  They clearly said that there was a button you could press to turn this rocket around.  I need to get back.  My son needs me!"

"Um," the officer shared a look with the guard.  "There's lots of red buttons up here.  But there isn't one that I know that does what you're saying."

"Then where's the Captain?  He'll know."

"I am the Captain.  Or as much of one as this thing needs.  Who are you?"  The guard was on the other side of the drifting body and closing in.

"Jacob.  I was a prisoner.  Now I want to go back.  I need to get to my son!"

"Well, I'm not sure how you're going to do that.  This thing doesn't go back.  Once we get to Europa, This hull becomes part of the prison.  Ralph over there, the rest of the crew and I, well, we become part of the staff on site.  Every shipment needs more personnel to take care of it.  We're not going back for a while.  If ever."  As the Captain finished, Ralph pushed the body at Jacob, using it as a shield against Jacob's wand.  Jacob pushed up, came over the top of the body and bashed his head against the ceiling.  The guard shot up after him, stun wand poised.  Jacob twisted and managed to get his foot in the other man's face, pushing hard with his shoulders braced against the top of the bridge.  The guard shot back down and tangled up with the Captain.  Jacob pushed with his back and then legs, coming down on top of the two men.  He lunged with the wand, stirring it up in their bodies with the same motion he had used to clean toilets.

With all three of the bridge personnel incapacitated, Jacob had no one who could point him to the button.  He looked around.  The bridge was covered with buttons and displays all showing the status of the ship.  There was one screen that kept showing an animation of one of the Bottles, zooming in on the aft of the ship, then the right and into one of the bottles.  Inside the bottle, it showed a flashing red dot among a field of green ones.  Other showed their projected path to Europa.  There were four chairs and a few levers, but he did not see the button immediately.

Jacob reasoned that it would need to be both obvious so that people could find it in an emergency and protected so that it wasn't hit accidentally.  It was not in the middle of any of the four consoles.  It was not on the ceiling or walls.  The closest that he could find was a button on the side of one of the front chairs.  It was big.  It was covered with a clear plastic cover.  It was sort of red, but also had yellow stripes on and around it.  It was labelled "Riot."

Jacob looked at the button.  He shook the Captain, but the Captain was out.  There was no one to ask.  Jacob had to decide: was this the button he needed to press or not.  A riot might be considered a recoverable emergency.  He looked around again.  There were some small red buttons around the screen showing their path.  He pressed them just to be sure.  Nothing happened.  The path did not change.

Finally, taking a deep breath, Jacob lifted the cover and pressed the button.

The Bottle Rocket exploded.

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Prompt: Einstein: "I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones." Write a battle scene from World War IV.

Dylan reached further down the rebar handle and pulled Highway Hammer from where it had stuck into the scull of one of the East Trackers.  The armor of cut up tires and car panels had not helped when fifty pounds of roadway concrete had crashed into the Tracker's head.  Armor always lost to weapons in Dylan's mind.  Better to move quickly.

Scanning around, Dylan saw that his Foothillers had pushed off the first assault from their 'compound', really nothing more than refuse and garbage pushed into blockades on the subdivision streets.  He scrambled back up and over to regroup with his people.

When the East Enders attacked again, they came off of the on-ramp in a wave then shifted their attack to one of the backyard fences.

"They're trying to flank us," he yelled.  Dylan pushed through the house attached to that yard, jumping over jumbled furniture and then going through the sliding glass door, already opened.  Most glass panes had gone when they hit Colorado Springs, thirty miles to the south.  This one had survived and his Foothillers had opened it in preparation for the attack.

In the yard, the East Trackers had already punched through the wooden fence slats.  It had taken the old Priors two years to scrounge enough of the slats to repair all of the complex's fencing.  The slats barely slowed the enemy down.

Dylan raised Highway Hammer above his head and screamed.  He brought it down through the rushing Enders, crushing arms and ribs with its passage.  Others rushed him while he tried to recover his balance, raising weapons made from similar materials: sharpened rebar spikes, wooden clubs with nail spikes.  One of them had what the Priors called a rifle, but to Dylan was just a club with a metal handle and a oddly shaped wooden head.  He rolled out of the way and kicked one of the Trackers in the crotch.  Leaving his hammer, he pushed himself back to his feet just in time to take an iron spike through his left side.  Screaming again, Dylan grabbed the hand of his attacker and head butted him, breaking the Tracker's nose and getting him to release his grip.

Taking a step back, Dylan pulled the rebar out and stabbed it into its former owner.  By then, the other Foothillers had made it into the backyard and started to help stem the attack.  In a matter of minutes, it was all over and the the Trackers withdrew.

"Any idea what they wanted?" asked one of the Priors.  They had been holed up in a storm cellar and now were creeping out to help pick through the dead.

Dylan shrugged.  "Probably just food or clean water.  Just look at them."  As the armor was removed, the bodies of the Trackers showed scabs and bumps that did not belong on a healthy body.  Most of them were skinny with dusty skin, veins showing through.  The eastern prairies had taken a few extra hits during the Big One, so the Priors claim.  To clear out any of the old silos that might still be active.  Whatever a silo was.  "Your slats were next to useless."

"Yes," said the Prior.  "Maybe if we backed them with rubble?  There's certainly enough around.  That would force them to climb the wall and give you and your group a place to stand and kick them off."

"Let's get to it then."

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Prompt: Through the eyes of an old man, describe to me a world where the time of death for every individual is known at birth; And no-matter what you try or do, death does not come before your time is up.

When I was born, the tattoo on my earlobe said 93.16690326. That translates into 93 year, 2 months, 11 days, 4 hours and 6 minutes. A time that clicks over in about fifteen minutes. Most people would claim that this is enough time. Enough time to live a good life. To accomplish something. For me, it has been way, way too much.

In my eleventh year, I developed a brain tumor. It started small and grew slowly. Very slowly. I did not know about it until I started getting headaches when I was thirteen. Even then, it took another two years for people to diagnosis it as an'oligodendroglioma'[1] . Incurable, they said and, of course by then the seizures had started.

I've spent the last 78 years and more trying to escape from this life. From the daily grand mals. From the constant headaches. The intracranial pressure. They cut a hole in my head to try and relieve that when I was twenty. Which makes for 73 years of wearing a helmet. Anything to escape from the pain and the torment and the complete uselessness of it all.

That's what gets me the most: the uselessness. I could have really done something with 93 years. Written a book. Became a musician, an artist. I could have invented something, started a company, made the world better. Started a family. Instead, I spent those 93 years battling something that wanted me dead. Something that I also wanted dead. Unfortunately, the only way to kill it was to kill me.

God knows, I tried. I've jumped off bridges and buildings. Run in front of buses and trains. I've taken poisons. I've stabbed myself with increasingly larger knives. I've shot myself in all parts of my body. I even built myself a guillotine and chopped my own head off. That was when I was 52. All that did was turn me into a head without a body. At least there have been fewer things to flail during the seizures.

Forty-one years later, I'm still alive. I've spent the intervening time staring at the clock. Watching the numbers move forward. Enduring the pain for one more second. Then another. Then another. Every one of them marches me closer to the end. To death. To release. The clock now says that there are ten seconds left. Just enough time to feel one more headache twinge. Now five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Thank you.

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Old Prompts

I started trying to answer a prompt daily in the summer of 2014.  It lasted just over a week.  Here are the results of those attempts.

• May 27, 2014 It is cold and dark and the air is still. I am the last one awake.
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• May 26, 2014 In a future where driverless cars are the norm...
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• May 25, 2014 Aliens with Magic
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• May 24, 2014 Stranded on the ISS when WW3 breaks out
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• May 23, 2014 Monster in the closet
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• May 22, 2014 D&D Episode goes off the rails
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• May 21, 2014 He who is without sin...
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• May 20, 2014 Awaiting Execution
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• May 19, 2014 Mundane Occurrence
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• May 18, 2014 "I just killed the President of the United States..."
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Prompt: An unexpected package arrives at your door.

The bell dings its dongs at four-thirty in the afternoon and prompts the door cam to notify my phone. I know that my daily package of Prime has arrived. I may have to work late, but I know that my brown box will be there waiting for me when I get home.

I no longer try to remember what I ordered two days in the past. It comes and, when I get home from work, I will accept it. I know that whatever is in that brown box with the Amazon tape will be something that my past self wanted. Wanted enough the hit the ‘1-click ship’ ™ button.

So I get home, fill my hands with the mail, unlock the door and kick the box through over the door jam. And hurt my toe through my loafers. It did not move; the box is heavier than usual. Dense. Recovering my footing, I drop the mail on the counter, shrug off my shoulder bag and return to the door. Bending at the knees, I try tipping the box up on one edge to get my fingers under it, but the box won’t tip. What did I order?

It is not a large box: maybe fifteen inches along the long edge, a foot along the short one and maybe six inches high. A typical Amazon box. Usually, they contain something like the argyle socks that caught my eye or a trivet for the stirring spoon from making a mess of the kitchen counter. This is not socks. This is not a trivet. This is something more than those. Something that I don’t remember. The box contains a mystery.

I push. I prod. I heave and kick. The cardboard dents, but the box will not shift. I could look at my order history, but that feels like cheating. Instead, I grab a steak knife from the kitchen and open the box on the door step. The knife pulls through the string reinforced tape on the two ends with the usual ease, but when I push down to rip the seam along the top the knife barely penetrates enough to part the tape. I fold back the flaps and stare. There are none of the air filled pillows. No packing peanuts or crushed paper. The inside is filled side-to-side, top-to-bottom with an amber solid. It is semi-transparent and I can just make out the packing slip at the bottom, but not well enough to make out the words. I poke at the stuff with my finger. It feels like plastic. I can dent it a little with my finger nail and can see where the knife scored it as I had opened the tape. It does not look that heavy.

Finally, I cheat. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my phone. I open the Amazon app and pull up the order history. Scrolling past the last two days’ history, I finally see what I had purchased: Liquid Nails™. I had planned on using it to put up some tin roofing squares I had purchased last week. And, as I always do, I had checked the Amazon ‘Frustration Free Packaging’ option. Not tubes of calking, just the Liquid Nails, no longer liquid, but adhered to my front step.

I am not free of frustration.

Link to the prompt on /r/WritingPrompts