Menu
The Hairball
Cookie Espionage
Mime Town
G.I. Joes
Back to the Feature
Main Page
|
|
High School Creative Writing
The Hairball
He was in a warehouse, dirt peeking through the crumbling concrete floor. Eyes darting from side to side, he finally caught a glimpse of it.
A bright white tennis shoe, so clean it couldn't have been more than a week old. Attached to the shoe was a foot, part of a body that seems to be dead. The boy's skin was tinted an unhealthy shade of purple, made more alarming when compare to the open, bulging eyes of the boy. They were white enough to match his sneakers.
The man carried in his hand a rusting knife, sharp in spite of its otherwise unkempt appearance. He hovered above the boy's head with the blade, waiting for the right moment. Intent on his purpose, he gingerly cradled a dirty lock of hair and with a sudden twist the hair was sliced off. Eagerly examining his prize, the man reluctantly shoved it into the large worn pocket of his coat with the others.
He stood up and trotted across the warehouse floor, stopping in midstride as his ear suddenly twitched. Images of prison filled his mind as the sirens became more audible.
He ran with one hand covering his pocket. His destination was only a few short blocks away, and he arrived without trouble.
At an office of sorts, the man in the coat scooped out the contents of his pockets. Hair of all lengths and colors now covered the table. In silent agreement, the fat man behind the desk nodded, reflections of the bright fluorescent lights bouncing off his head and around the room. With one hand he opened a squeaky drawer and removed a small box. The man in the coat grabbed it as he bounded away excitedly.
As he watched the man in the coat scamper off, the fat man discretely pressed a button on his desk and muttered something unintelligible. Immediately an older woman with grey drooping hair came in, needle in hand. In the other hand was a huge hairball-like creation.
Without a word, the old woman settled down in a mud-smeared plastic chair and methodically began to sew the hair on the table to the hairball. The fat man lazily leaned back in his imitation leather office chair, fiddling with the dial of his radio for a brief moment. Then, satisfied, a lopsided grin spread across his face as polka music wafted through the room. A loud thump broke the spell, startling the old woman and the fat man. Curious, the fat man scooted over to the window of his office and peered out through a cheap-looking telescope.
An orange striped cat stood on the ledge of the window across the alley, purring as it peered downwards at the broken flower pot below. In the dingy apartment behind the cat were more animals, some darting between cardboard boxes and wooden crates. A small dog wandered towards its food dish, but it was empty.
The fat man's telescope meandered a few feet to the right, were a table stood. On the table sat an empty shoe box, not more than a week old.
Cookie Espionage
Dobbs straightened his tie nervously as he struggled to explain, "Sir, one of the prototypes has been leaked... But don't worry, I've spoken to the manager of the employee who stole it and he says it's almost certainly the work of the same people who created the Fig Newton... And since they're not our major competitors, this shouldn't be too devastating..."
"Stop right there, Dobbs," the old man interjected. "I can't have you underestimating anyone.. This is a very dangerous game we're playing, and I think it's important that you realize the Newton is more than it seems... A cookie is just a cookie, but Newtons are fruit and cake."
Dobbs nodded, hypnotized by the cookie crumbs falling from the old man's beard.
Quickly, he looked away, breaking the spell. His eyes strayed to a neatly arranged tray of cookies in the center of the oak table. Then, with a wild look in his eyes Dobbs snatched an oreo cookie, upsetting the delicate balance of the tray and sending an avalanche of cookies across the room. He lifted the oreo to his ear, his face becoming panicked.
"It's bugged, boss... They've heard everything we've said so far," Dobbs whispered franticly.
"You know what to do," the old man said with cold self-assurance.
Dobbs took the oreo in his hand, gazing at it with intense concentration. Then, with a precise gesture, he dunked the oreo into a tall glass of milk. The oreo sizzled and sparked with electricity.
Mime Town
A man silently climbs a ladder that isn't there and without a sound plucks an apple I can't see from what I can only guess is a tree. The man's hat, a navy blue beret, threatened to fall from its crooked perch atop his head.
Gazing at the town, I saw many others dressed the same way as the man (wearing all black, like unsuccessful street performers) and engaged in equally confusing activities. It was all vaguely reminiscent of a Dateline special report on cults.
I took a step into the street (which was only distinguishable as such by the lack of grass) and was only able to avoid a young boy on what must have been an invisible bike by leaping backwards and falling into a puddle. Even as the muddy water cascaded through the air I was singularly aware of the absence of a splashing noise. The bike rider made no sound either, even when he swerved through a particularly rough patch of gravel.
I stood and shook the loose water from my clothes. Now more than ever the unearthly silence of this place was starting to get to me. I nervously shoved my hands into my damp pockets and walked cautiously down the street, In an attempt to break up the noiselessness, I began to whistle a tune. No sound came out.
Only now did I realize the absurdity of the lack of buildings. The too-yellow sun glinted off something that seemed very familiar and very out of place. Almost without thinking, I ran toward it.
There, in the middle of a technological desert: a radio. Expecting relief from this state of quiet insanity, I fumbled with the buttons for a moment before switching on the stereo and turning the volume to its highest setting.
The silence was deafening.
G.I. Joes
When I was little, I used to be afraid of the ice cream man. This was because I didn't know that money was what I traded for ice cream, and I did know that you never got something for nothing. I thought that maybe if you looked directly into the ice cream man's eyes, he would turn you into ice cream. I thought this partly because every time you heard the ice cream truck coming, all the kids would run inside. I didn't know they were just looking for money. When they came back outside, I thought it was because they were hypnotized, like that episode of The Smurfs where they all just walked into Gargamel's lair. If I ever got turned into ice cream, I hoped that it would be the green kind that looked like a frog and had bubble gum in it. That kind tasted best, and I always figured that if it tasted good eating the ice cream, then being the ice cream would probably taste better.
When I lived in Chicago (birth through kindergarten), I used to play G.I. Joes. A lot. And when I wasn't playing G.I. Joes I was watching the G.I. Joe cartoon on tv. My favorite character was Scarlet. My second favorite character was Lady J. I remember when I was little the single most traumatic event was when I found out there was no Scarlet action figure. The second most traumatic event was when the Lady J action figure lost a leg in battle (my sister ran it over with her fire engine), and my dad called the company but they didn't make Lady J action figures any more. So I tried pretending that the Duke action figure was really a girl named Dukella and that she was Scarlet's sister, but that didn't work so good, mostly because I kept forgetting. But in the end I realized that none of that really mattered, so long as the G.I. Joes still rode their My Little Ponies into battle against the evil giant Barbie and her just-as-evil sidekick Skipper, the slightly shorter, but still very tall, giant.
Back to the Feature: A Beginner's Guide to Channel Surfing
In the beginning, there was only radio. The people cried out for a hero. Television heard the call, and answered with a new form of entertainment- a tool for communication that exposed people to cultures and ideas that they had never believed could exist. And Television saw that this was good.
But even in this climate of bliss, shadows began to darken the land. Shadows with names like "The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour." So the people cried out again, but louder this time because their television sets were blaring. This cry was answered with the Remote Control, a tool so revolutionary... well, it started a revolution. Homes across the nation embraced this technological wonder, and as the influence of this mighty instrument spread, a new sport arose, drafting thousands upon thousands of followers. They called it... CHANNEL SURFING!!!
So you, too, have heard the seductive call of the remote... The sport (or perhaps I should say art) of channel surfing tempts you with its promise of honor, glory, and Aaron Spelling dramas.
Well, I'll level with you- it won't be easy, many have attempted mastery and failed. But I can see that you will not be easily thwarted from this, your quest, and so I will pass on to you what knowledge I have been able to acquire in my years of toil.
The first of the many trials you must face is discovering the location of the remote control. Ah, I can see that you find the prospect of a missing remote control a matter of joviality. Though you laugh now, you will soon know the torment such a situation can cause.
I often wondered, as an apprentice of the channel surfing trade, how the remote could have found its way into such places- empty pizza boxes, under couch cushions, and many places that I cannot even venture to list, lest I be called a liar. But as I matured, I learned that the remote control has a power all its own, a camouflaging ability that the military has been trying to understand for years.
There are many strategies for the location of a remote control, ranging from the Tear Apart The Whole Room Looking Only To Find The Remote Control Was In Your Pocket All Along system to the less practical Duct Tape A Beeper To The Remote So True Happiness Is Only A Phone Call Away method. I personally prefer the Train Your Pet To Find The Remote The Same Way They Train Those Drug Sniffing Dogs At The Airport procedure, but it's generally best to experiment until you find the way that best suits you.
You have now found the remote and completed the first leg of your odyssey. I envy you, standing on the threshold of achievement and meeting for the first time your partner in this game of games. Fix your hair and unwrinkle that shirt, you want to make a good first impression.
As you cradle the newly discovered remote in your hands, take a moment to examine its workings. Pay close attention to the buttons marked Channel Up and Power. As any veteran channel surfer will tell you, these are the only two buttons you need.
After you've had time to familiarize yourself with the keypad, turn on the television by pressing the Power button. Begin clicking Channel Up. As each channel vies for your viewership, offering up such fare as made-for-TV movies and reruns of long-cancelled series, you must remain strong, defying their heinous ploys to distract you from your duty. Only by doing this may you truly become one with the medium that is television.
Now that you have learned the basics of this discipline, I can do nothing more for you, except to impart the wisdom that has been passed down from generation to generation among channel surfers: 'Bewarre thee Battery, Fore itt is Writtenn that He wille Betraye youe inn yore Timme of gratest Neede, Fore once thee Battery iss no morre, So too wille you be Condemnedd to Onee Channell.'
But do not be discouraged, even if fates of low batteries and cramped hands knock upon your door, so do the glorious possibilities of watching Jerry Springer, professional wrestling, and the Home Shopping Network all at once. And that, my friend, should be more than enough reason to follow the path of the channel surfer.
|