Alex Albright, 21-year-old Anthropology/Sociology double major, contemplates the sort of paper she could publish on the monster aliens that invaded earth and killed all her loved ones.
It would be about the little things, Alex decides, her head under her desk as one of them moves around her room in the dark. Writing sticky notes, taking photographs, setting alarms. That’s the sort of edge this paper could really bring to the table – the human connection. The sort of tendencies that span galaxies and exist in spite of an urge to exterminate all other sentient life. She could watch them from afar and note them giving each other high-fives with their tentacles and playing cards.
I mean you can't blame her for staying at school up in Vermont. When word first hit the college’s online forums, when the army was still trying to get it together, people started leaving and then never came back. She called her parents; they didn't call back. The city had already been vaporized. Where was she going to go?
And they - I mean, they – hadn’t been around these parts for so long. Only a couple weeks after the touch-down they had left, and she had gotten lonely and then accustomed and then sloppy. She turned lights on at night. She played music out loud.
Mostly, though, she knows it will be her watch alarm that does her in – every midnight exactly, just to remind her to take stock of her supplies. It was eleven forty-eight when she heard the footsteps outside her room, she has been trying to count the seconds.
It touches the bed that used to belong to her roommate. Alex remembers this, mainly: that they had a fight about whose turn it was to buy the milk and cereal that week and then Alex saw her get devoured on the lawn in front of the chapel. It was to say the least an unusual start to her spring term.
She thinks about her pocket-knife, on the bedside table feet away – she knows there isn’t time; they are so quick. She thinks about her parents because she misses them a lot of the time. She thinks about her dog and her old boyfriend. She thinks about the garden she was going to start on the football field.
And then there is a quiet beeping.
It looks down, where a small electronic device wrapped around one of its appendages is glowing. It taps something. The beeping stops.
It walks out and closes the door.
Friday, December 09, 2011
Tuesday, November 08, 2011
The Money Cut
The riskiest play in ultimate is not the huck. People assume it is, but the fact is that if you're comfortable with a long throw and if your guy is open - and these are, of course, two prerequisites for throwing a huck - then there isn't an issue. Fake break side, wind back, step out, and put that shit up. It's not an issue.
The riskiest play in ultimate is the up-line cut - the money cut - and it goes like this. The disc is trapped on or near the line, and the dump - on stall four to six, maybe - takes a step towards the around and then busts up into the force lane diagonal to whomever has the disc.
And the throw isn't hard just because hitting someone running nearly straight away from you is tricky - it's hard because at the moment you have to let go - at the moment of release - your mark is in between you and your target. You get to see him and his defender a second before you make the throw, but for the most part you're blind. You watch the first two seconds of a five second race and have to decide who is going to win. You don't know what's on the other side - your handler could have tripped or it just could have been a fake. This has happened before - we've all seen it happen, that the disc is trapped on the line and then it gets thrown five yards up to no one because the dump changed his mind.
Worse still is that the money cut is a bailout throw - if you don't hit your money cut then you're on stall seven with a defender right in front of you in the lane and no dump at all. New players look off the up-line because it's scary and then end up getting stalled. Or maybe even the handler - a senior, the friendly and athletic captain of the team - shouldn't have made the cut. His man is tight on him and you don't know how much space he has.
So you put it up, maybe, high and sort of far because his defender has already laid out for a few d's, and he catches it and immediately throws a huck to a continuation deep. Or you don't, because, you know, sometimes you don't. The first player in the stack knows what he's doing, and you've always trusted your break throws. It might be worth a shot.
The riskiest play in ultimate is the up-line cut - the money cut - and it goes like this. The disc is trapped on or near the line, and the dump - on stall four to six, maybe - takes a step towards the around and then busts up into the force lane diagonal to whomever has the disc.
And the throw isn't hard just because hitting someone running nearly straight away from you is tricky - it's hard because at the moment you have to let go - at the moment of release - your mark is in between you and your target. You get to see him and his defender a second before you make the throw, but for the most part you're blind. You watch the first two seconds of a five second race and have to decide who is going to win. You don't know what's on the other side - your handler could have tripped or it just could have been a fake. This has happened before - we've all seen it happen, that the disc is trapped on the line and then it gets thrown five yards up to no one because the dump changed his mind.
Worse still is that the money cut is a bailout throw - if you don't hit your money cut then you're on stall seven with a defender right in front of you in the lane and no dump at all. New players look off the up-line because it's scary and then end up getting stalled. Or maybe even the handler - a senior, the friendly and athletic captain of the team - shouldn't have made the cut. His man is tight on him and you don't know how much space he has.
So you put it up, maybe, high and sort of far because his defender has already laid out for a few d's, and he catches it and immediately throws a huck to a continuation deep. Or you don't, because, you know, sometimes you don't. The first player in the stack knows what he's doing, and you've always trusted your break throws. It might be worth a shot.
Tuesday, November 01, 2011
Notes
As some of you might know I'm taking an introductory fiction writing class this semester, which means obviously most of my creative efforts have been directed away from my blog. That being said I'll do my best to post what I can here - what is below this note ("VICTOR RHODES") is a mostly-finished piece for that class. I encourage you to read it and leave me some criticism!
Also of note: writing for this blog the last three years has left me virtually unable to write a story longer than 250 words.
Also of note: writing for this blog the last three years has left me virtually unable to write a story longer than 250 words.
VICTOR RHODES, PRIMARY RANDOMIZATION EDITOR
1.
The fan on his desk is the small, industrial kind – steel and gray and unreasonably loud – but Victor, like all his coworkers, keeps it on for the heat in the office. He is fairly certain someone has put in a request for quieter ones. He is also fairly certain he is starting to get another migraine.
The document in question is produced just before five o’clock.
His process is as follows: the randomization is created on a central server and sent to his desktop computer. If he determines it to be garbage (as nearly all of them are) he just deletes it. If it’s mostly comprehensible, though, he clicks advance and it goes to a higher-level analyst – one who decides if the idea itself makes any sense and to what sort of expert reader it should be passed on to if it does. Victor is averaging a little less than four documents advanced per day (out of nearly a thousand he sees), which is about right for readers at the lowest level.
This text, though, is different. Victor reads it twice and then blinks at the screen for a little bit.
He prints it out and clicks delete.
2.
The idea in the end was called Intentional Serendipity, and it went like this: let’s fake discovery. You’ll grant that most scientific advances can be expressed in a couple paragraphs, and who could imagine how valuable even a single page of a medical journal from one hundred years in the future would be to us now? So let’s fake it, let’s just fake the whole thing. Let’s make computers generate random strings of words and see if they make any sense. Sure, the ideas still need a little testing, but for every few million non-sensical paragraphs that are generated there is always that one that makes it to the real expert, who looks down his glasses at it and say, “you know, I think this would work.”
And we got our breakthroughs, that’s the thing. The nature of the process meant that a great deal of them were military – a field that was evidently lacking in creativity more than anything – but we cured a few diseases along the way, we came up with some new and innovative economic policies. According to a sociological test invented with the help of randomization number 7A4892F, we discovered that overall quality of life had improved since Intentional Serendipity had been implemented. There were even some published short stories written originally and completely by the computers – lyrical ones, flat ones, sad ones – and of course a wide range of visionary mathematical proofs. The human race had quit using what little light it had in trying to navigate the darkness of its existence, choosing instead to sprint through the night, eyes squeezed tight, hoping to bump into something that felt like it might help.
3.
TO: HUMANITY C/O VICTOR RHODES, PRIMARY RANDOMIZATION EDITOR
FROM: THE LORD YOUR GOD IN HEAVEN RULER OF THE UNIVERSE
THIS PROCESS IS FLAWED AND WILL CONSUME YOU.
On the train, Victor reads and re-reads the document, giving nervous glances to the other passengers every couple of minutes. It isn’t very long – by design, of course – but it doesn’t need to be.
Here’s the thing, though: statistically speaking something like this was bound to happen. Victor isn’t a religious man, but this - this?
At home, Victor puts the paper on his fridge and tries to put it out of his mind for a little bit. He makes a couple hot dogs and thinks about calling Hannah at her conference, but it’ll be just after midnight in Hong Kong and it’s probably not worth waking her up. If she were here she’d know what to do, he’s sure, but maybe it’s for the best that he makes this decision on his own. It’s not going to be a secret police job or anything like that, but making this public in any significant way means he loses his job for sure. With the economy the way it is and Hannah still in school he wonders if it’s worth it.
For the first time in two decades, Victor prays before he gets in bed. It’s sweaty and embarrassed and about half of it is plagiarized from movies and television, but it’s a prayer, at least.
4.
Victor worked in a lab before.
I mean he’s not bitter or anything because things worked out for the best – I mean, sure, he liked his old job. The thing is his mom was pretty sick so he went into research pretty much right away, but then when I.S. came around the lab shut down and his mom died, which was unrelated, he knows, but still.
And a couple months later – a couple months of Hannah waitressing to support them both – I.S. found a cure out of one of the randomization offices in the Midwest. It got passed up by a reader named Barton and in the very middle of the paragraph there was the word badger, but if you ignored that, I mean, it made sense and it was exactly right. The story got published all over, and always ended the same way, about how more low-level readers were needed. When Victor read it he cried, and then he applied for the job.
5.
In his dream, at the kitchen table with his mother and God.
Victor asks his mother: Why me?
His mother smiles and shakes her head in the way she used to.
Victor looks at God.
God clears his throat and takes a sip of water.
6.
At lunch, Victor talks with the office’s administrative assistant. Her name is Gladys and she’s like a thousand years old. Victor thinks she might have powers.
“Gladys, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, dear, what is it?”
He appreciates this term of endearment.
“If you got a letter that wasn’t addressed to you, you’d forward it to the right person, right? Or at least try to?”
“Sure, of course.”
Victor taps the table with the very tips of his fingers.
“But let’s say this letter - let’s say you read it by accident, and it had some stuff in it that you thought might be wrong. Stuff that, like, might even cause trouble. What would you do then?”
Gladys eats a thoughtful bite of her bran muffin. “Gee, that’s a toughy. The letter wasn’t addressed to me, though? Well, I guess then I would ask my husband Edwin what he would do.”
“But say you couldn’t ask him,” Victor says, “what would you do if you had to figure this out by yourself?”
“Well gosh, I just don’t know.” She sort of trails off in a way that makes Victor think she might come up with something, but then she smiles at him as if expecting another question.
He packs up his stuff. “Yeah, nevermind. Thanks, Gladys.”
7.
Disaster strikes just after lunch, when Victor moves the paper on his desk and it gets caught up in the fan’s draft - up, around, and then violently through the back of the blades. Victor sits dismayed as the holy confetti quietly settles around his cubicle. He then decides this is a good time to take a smoke break.
8.
Outside with his boss Nick, Victor lights up and looks up at the sun as if he might be able to figure out what time it is.
“Hey, Nick, you were a botanist before I.S., right?”
“Mmmhmm.” Nick nods.
“And then what’s your take on all this?” Victor asks, “How do you feel about quitting your job as a scientist for a career in middle management?”
Nick looks across the street. “I feel okay about it.”
“Yeah?” Victor says.
“Yeah,” Nick says.
There is a brief silence.
“Because I was in it for the discovery,” Nick says, “I wanted to figure out stuff about the world, and now we’re doing it this different way. I’m still helping. We’re all still helping.”
Victor squints at him. He takes a drag on his cigarette.
“If I deleted a document by accident, is there a way to get it back? If I just clicked the wrong button, I mean.”
“You clicked the wrong button? Your job is to click one of two buttons and you clicked the wrong one?”
Victor just stares.
“If you go to the server on your computer I believe there are records,” Nick says, “It’s so an employee can’t steal a good idea, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He puts out his smoke and turns to go inside.
Victor says, “Hey, Nick.”
Nick says, “What.”
Victor says, “We need new fans.”
The fan on his desk is the small, industrial kind – steel and gray and unreasonably loud – but Victor, like all his coworkers, keeps it on for the heat in the office. He is fairly certain someone has put in a request for quieter ones. He is also fairly certain he is starting to get another migraine.
The document in question is produced just before five o’clock.
His process is as follows: the randomization is created on a central server and sent to his desktop computer. If he determines it to be garbage (as nearly all of them are) he just deletes it. If it’s mostly comprehensible, though, he clicks advance and it goes to a higher-level analyst – one who decides if the idea itself makes any sense and to what sort of expert reader it should be passed on to if it does. Victor is averaging a little less than four documents advanced per day (out of nearly a thousand he sees), which is about right for readers at the lowest level.
This text, though, is different. Victor reads it twice and then blinks at the screen for a little bit.
He prints it out and clicks delete.
2.
The idea in the end was called Intentional Serendipity, and it went like this: let’s fake discovery. You’ll grant that most scientific advances can be expressed in a couple paragraphs, and who could imagine how valuable even a single page of a medical journal from one hundred years in the future would be to us now? So let’s fake it, let’s just fake the whole thing. Let’s make computers generate random strings of words and see if they make any sense. Sure, the ideas still need a little testing, but for every few million non-sensical paragraphs that are generated there is always that one that makes it to the real expert, who looks down his glasses at it and say, “you know, I think this would work.”
And we got our breakthroughs, that’s the thing. The nature of the process meant that a great deal of them were military – a field that was evidently lacking in creativity more than anything – but we cured a few diseases along the way, we came up with some new and innovative economic policies. According to a sociological test invented with the help of randomization number 7A4892F, we discovered that overall quality of life had improved since Intentional Serendipity had been implemented. There were even some published short stories written originally and completely by the computers – lyrical ones, flat ones, sad ones – and of course a wide range of visionary mathematical proofs. The human race had quit using what little light it had in trying to navigate the darkness of its existence, choosing instead to sprint through the night, eyes squeezed tight, hoping to bump into something that felt like it might help.
3.
TO: HUMANITY C/O VICTOR RHODES, PRIMARY RANDOMIZATION EDITOR
FROM: THE LORD YOUR GOD IN HEAVEN RULER OF THE UNIVERSE
THIS PROCESS IS FLAWED AND WILL CONSUME YOU.
On the train, Victor reads and re-reads the document, giving nervous glances to the other passengers every couple of minutes. It isn’t very long – by design, of course – but it doesn’t need to be.
Here’s the thing, though: statistically speaking something like this was bound to happen. Victor isn’t a religious man, but this - this?
At home, Victor puts the paper on his fridge and tries to put it out of his mind for a little bit. He makes a couple hot dogs and thinks about calling Hannah at her conference, but it’ll be just after midnight in Hong Kong and it’s probably not worth waking her up. If she were here she’d know what to do, he’s sure, but maybe it’s for the best that he makes this decision on his own. It’s not going to be a secret police job or anything like that, but making this public in any significant way means he loses his job for sure. With the economy the way it is and Hannah still in school he wonders if it’s worth it.
For the first time in two decades, Victor prays before he gets in bed. It’s sweaty and embarrassed and about half of it is plagiarized from movies and television, but it’s a prayer, at least.
4.
Victor worked in a lab before.
I mean he’s not bitter or anything because things worked out for the best – I mean, sure, he liked his old job. The thing is his mom was pretty sick so he went into research pretty much right away, but then when I.S. came around the lab shut down and his mom died, which was unrelated, he knows, but still.
And a couple months later – a couple months of Hannah waitressing to support them both – I.S. found a cure out of one of the randomization offices in the Midwest. It got passed up by a reader named Barton and in the very middle of the paragraph there was the word badger, but if you ignored that, I mean, it made sense and it was exactly right. The story got published all over, and always ended the same way, about how more low-level readers were needed. When Victor read it he cried, and then he applied for the job.
5.
In his dream, at the kitchen table with his mother and God.
Victor asks his mother: Why me?
His mother smiles and shakes her head in the way she used to.
Victor looks at God.
God clears his throat and takes a sip of water.
6.
At lunch, Victor talks with the office’s administrative assistant. Her name is Gladys and she’s like a thousand years old. Victor thinks she might have powers.
“Gladys, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, dear, what is it?”
He appreciates this term of endearment.
“If you got a letter that wasn’t addressed to you, you’d forward it to the right person, right? Or at least try to?”
“Sure, of course.”
Victor taps the table with the very tips of his fingers.
“But let’s say this letter - let’s say you read it by accident, and it had some stuff in it that you thought might be wrong. Stuff that, like, might even cause trouble. What would you do then?”
Gladys eats a thoughtful bite of her bran muffin. “Gee, that’s a toughy. The letter wasn’t addressed to me, though? Well, I guess then I would ask my husband Edwin what he would do.”
“But say you couldn’t ask him,” Victor says, “what would you do if you had to figure this out by yourself?”
“Well gosh, I just don’t know.” She sort of trails off in a way that makes Victor think she might come up with something, but then she smiles at him as if expecting another question.
He packs up his stuff. “Yeah, nevermind. Thanks, Gladys.”
7.
Disaster strikes just after lunch, when Victor moves the paper on his desk and it gets caught up in the fan’s draft - up, around, and then violently through the back of the blades. Victor sits dismayed as the holy confetti quietly settles around his cubicle. He then decides this is a good time to take a smoke break.
8.
Outside with his boss Nick, Victor lights up and looks up at the sun as if he might be able to figure out what time it is.
“Hey, Nick, you were a botanist before I.S., right?”
“Mmmhmm.” Nick nods.
“And then what’s your take on all this?” Victor asks, “How do you feel about quitting your job as a scientist for a career in middle management?”
Nick looks across the street. “I feel okay about it.”
“Yeah?” Victor says.
“Yeah,” Nick says.
There is a brief silence.
“Because I was in it for the discovery,” Nick says, “I wanted to figure out stuff about the world, and now we’re doing it this different way. I’m still helping. We’re all still helping.”
Victor squints at him. He takes a drag on his cigarette.
“If I deleted a document by accident, is there a way to get it back? If I just clicked the wrong button, I mean.”
“You clicked the wrong button? Your job is to click one of two buttons and you clicked the wrong one?”
Victor just stares.
“If you go to the server on your computer I believe there are records,” Nick says, “It’s so an employee can’t steal a good idea, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He puts out his smoke and turns to go inside.
Victor says, “Hey, Nick.”
Nick says, “What.”
Victor says, “We need new fans.”
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Pets Die
I wrote this song January 2011, and this is me performing it live for the incoming freshmen on the eve of their orientation hiking trips in September 2011. Enjoy, and sorry for the mildly poor quality.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Intersection
The question is this: Show by example that the intersection of infinitely many open sets need not be open.
"The intersection of a finite number of open sets is always open," Georg explains, "but this is kind of an interesting problem. We have infinity under our fingers, isn't that kind of neat? We get to use an example that goes on forever."
Georg stares at the chalkboard for a little bit, and then he puts down his chalk and wipes his fingers on his sweater. At the table, Richard looks up from his phone. "No ideas?"
Georg shakes his head. "You?"
Richard puts down his phone and regards the board for a minute. They do their problem set on Wednesday nights in the small study room on the third floor of the library. It's the Western facing corner, and they always get there right after dinner - just in time for the sunset. It's kind of a centering experience.
Richard: "I've been thinking about signing up for the swim class."
Georg: "You don't know how to swim?"
Richard: "No, I do, but what if I just showed up and pretended I didn't know how to and then acted like I was the fastest learner ever? The swim girls teach that class to raise money for the team."
Georg looks back at the board. "Yeah, I guess."
"The intersection of a finite number of open sets is always open," Georg explains, "but this is kind of an interesting problem. We have infinity under our fingers, isn't that kind of neat? We get to use an example that goes on forever."
Georg stares at the chalkboard for a little bit, and then he puts down his chalk and wipes his fingers on his sweater. At the table, Richard looks up from his phone. "No ideas?"
Georg shakes his head. "You?"
Richard puts down his phone and regards the board for a minute. They do their problem set on Wednesday nights in the small study room on the third floor of the library. It's the Western facing corner, and they always get there right after dinner - just in time for the sunset. It's kind of a centering experience.
Richard: "I've been thinking about signing up for the swim class."
Georg: "You don't know how to swim?"
Richard: "No, I do, but what if I just showed up and pretended I didn't know how to and then acted like I was the fastest learner ever? The swim girls teach that class to raise money for the team."
Georg looks back at the board. "Yeah, I guess."
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
The Remote: Part III
Wide shot of the interior of the office. Suddenly, JOHNSON emerges from his cubicle carrying his monitor and yelling as he runs for the window.
2 - Ext. Office - Day - 2
The monitor explodes out from the window.
3 - Int. Office - Day - 3
JOHNSON turns from the hole in the window to face his co-workers, all staring from their offices and cubicles.
A beat. JOHNSON catches his breath, lifts the remote, and...
Suddenly, we're back inside JOHNSON's cubicle. His monitor is returned to its normal spot, and JOHNSON is sitting, still holding the remote like he was before.
Short montage here: JOHNSON smacks his attractive female co-worker's rear in passing, JOHNSON dances on his desk, JOHNSON watches his building burn from the parking lot.
4 - Int. BOSS's Office - Day - 4
Inside the BOSS's office, the BOSS at his desk. The inside of this office is just as the rest of the setting - gray, mostly. We see photographs on the BOSS's desk, but, instead of his family, there are pictures of his car and of him at the pool with babes. Also on the desk: a protein shake, several empty Red Bulls, and a bodybuilding magazine.
The BOSS himself is blonde, good-looking, and wearing an expensive suit. He works at his computer, until JOHNSON enters.
The BOSS stands up upon seeing JOHNSON, who strolls straight up to his superior and, before either one has time to say anything, punches him straight in the nose. There's an audible crack at connection.
BOSS (enraged)
Johnson, what the fuck is your problem?
JOHNSON pulls out the remote smoothly.
JOHNSON
Oh, no problem, boss.
He clicks the remote.
Nothing happens.
He clicks at again, and then again. His BOSS is still in front of him, dripping blood from a broken nose. JOHNSON, meanwhile, is at a loss for words - his remote is suddenly broken.
Cut to JOHNSON, still clutching the remote, then to the BOSS, his reddening face clearly showing his rage. The BOSS inhales and prepares to scream.
Freeze.
On-screen: THE REMOTE.
2 - Ext. Office - Day - 2
The monitor explodes out from the window.
3 - Int. Office - Day - 3
JOHNSON turns from the hole in the window to face his co-workers, all staring from their offices and cubicles.
A beat. JOHNSON catches his breath, lifts the remote, and...
Suddenly, we're back inside JOHNSON's cubicle. His monitor is returned to its normal spot, and JOHNSON is sitting, still holding the remote like he was before.
Short montage here: JOHNSON smacks his attractive female co-worker's rear in passing, JOHNSON dances on his desk, JOHNSON watches his building burn from the parking lot.
4 - Int. BOSS's Office - Day - 4
Inside the BOSS's office, the BOSS at his desk. The inside of this office is just as the rest of the setting - gray, mostly. We see photographs on the BOSS's desk, but, instead of his family, there are pictures of his car and of him at the pool with babes. Also on the desk: a protein shake, several empty Red Bulls, and a bodybuilding magazine.
The BOSS himself is blonde, good-looking, and wearing an expensive suit. He works at his computer, until JOHNSON enters.
The BOSS stands up upon seeing JOHNSON, who strolls straight up to his superior and, before either one has time to say anything, punches him straight in the nose. There's an audible crack at connection.
BOSS (enraged)
Johnson, what the fuck is your problem?
JOHNSON pulls out the remote smoothly.
JOHNSON
Oh, no problem, boss.
He clicks the remote.
Nothing happens.
He clicks at again, and then again. His BOSS is still in front of him, dripping blood from a broken nose. JOHNSON, meanwhile, is at a loss for words - his remote is suddenly broken.
Cut to JOHNSON, still clutching the remote, then to the BOSS, his reddening face clearly showing his rage. The BOSS inhales and prepares to scream.
Freeze.
On-screen: THE REMOTE.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
The Remote: Part II
Back inside the cubicle, JOHNSON's phone rings. He reaches for it as he peruses a piece of paper from the stack, and, as he does so, he accidentally knocks all of the files and the remote onto the floor. He swears and picks up the phone.
JOHNSON (flustered)
Hello? Hello? No, I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number.
He hangs up, frustrated, and leans down to pick up what he dropped. He picks up the remote first and tosses it on the desk, button-side down.
Insert: the remote hitting the desk with enough force to press the button.
JOHNSON leans back down to get the rest of the papers.
They aren't there.
He leans back up towards his desk, and, there they are - exactly how they were before he dropped them. He looks at the ground again, then back up at the papers.
A beat. JOHNSON continues to stare around. Was this a trick? Did anyone see? He back at his papers, and then notices, finally: the remote.
Another beat.
JOHNSON, now starting to understand what we've realized from the beginning, picks a pen from a mug on his desk and puts it carefully on the desk in front of him.
JOHNSON regards the pen. The pen regards JOHNSON. JOHNSON blinks, and then he presses the remote.
The pen is back in the mug.
JOHNSON stares. He stares for a while, I mean, because what do you do when you figure this kind of thing out, and then JOHNSON - God have mercy on his soul - JOHNSON smiles.
JOHNSON (flustered)
Hello? Hello? No, I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number.
He hangs up, frustrated, and leans down to pick up what he dropped. He picks up the remote first and tosses it on the desk, button-side down.
Insert: the remote hitting the desk with enough force to press the button.
JOHNSON leans back down to get the rest of the papers.
They aren't there.
He leans back up towards his desk, and, there they are - exactly how they were before he dropped them. He looks at the ground again, then back up at the papers.
A beat. JOHNSON continues to stare around. Was this a trick? Did anyone see? He back at his papers, and then notices, finally: the remote.
Another beat.
JOHNSON, now starting to understand what we've realized from the beginning, picks a pen from a mug on his desk and puts it carefully on the desk in front of him.
JOHNSON regards the pen. The pen regards JOHNSON. JOHNSON blinks, and then he presses the remote.
The pen is back in the mug.
JOHNSON stares. He stares for a while, I mean, because what do you do when you figure this kind of thing out, and then JOHNSON - God have mercy on his soul - JOHNSON smiles.
Friday, August 26, 2011
The Remote: Part I
1 - Int. Office - Day - 1
Close-up of a small package neatly wrapped in brown paper.
Further out: the package is sitting on a gray desk in a gray cubicle. The cubicle itself is overwhelmingly non-descript - a computer, a stapler, a few file folders.
Further out once more, now from the outside of the cubicle looking in. The package remains visible.
ON-SCREEN: THE REMOTE
Enter JOHNSON, young, with dark hair, in a short-sleeved white shirt and a gray plaid tie. He glances at his watch to find he’s a little late. He puts his briefcase down next to his desk and then, as he goes to sit down, notices a massive stack of papers on his chair. He picks a sticky note off the top.
Insert: the note, which reads, “I needed these yesterday!!! Get them to me ASAP!”
JOHNSON sighs and crinkles up the note.
He picks up the papers and put them all on his desk, and then, sitting, turns to his computer.
Then he notices the package.
He examines it briefly, turning it over in his hands - it’s clear he doesn’t know what or from whom it is. He tears into it with his letter opener.
Inside the paper lies a remote, dark, with one small replay button and nothing else.
JOHNSON inspects the remote for a moment. We see him examining it from outside his cubicle, where a woman walks by in a dark pantsuit.
From inside the cubicle again: JOHNSON, finding nothing else to do with it, presses the replay button.
Nothing seems to have happened. He puts down the remote on his desk and turns to the stack of papers.
From outside the cubicle, though, we see the woman in the pantsuit walk by again - from the same direction as last time.
Close-up of a small package neatly wrapped in brown paper.
Further out: the package is sitting on a gray desk in a gray cubicle. The cubicle itself is overwhelmingly non-descript - a computer, a stapler, a few file folders.
Further out once more, now from the outside of the cubicle looking in. The package remains visible.
ON-SCREEN: THE REMOTE
Enter JOHNSON, young, with dark hair, in a short-sleeved white shirt and a gray plaid tie. He glances at his watch to find he’s a little late. He puts his briefcase down next to his desk and then, as he goes to sit down, notices a massive stack of papers on his chair. He picks a sticky note off the top.
Insert: the note, which reads, “I needed these yesterday!!! Get them to me ASAP!”
JOHNSON sighs and crinkles up the note.
He picks up the papers and put them all on his desk, and then, sitting, turns to his computer.
Then he notices the package.
He examines it briefly, turning it over in his hands - it’s clear he doesn’t know what or from whom it is. He tears into it with his letter opener.
Inside the paper lies a remote, dark, with one small replay button and nothing else.
JOHNSON inspects the remote for a moment. We see him examining it from outside his cubicle, where a woman walks by in a dark pantsuit.
From inside the cubicle again: JOHNSON, finding nothing else to do with it, presses the replay button.
Nothing seems to have happened. He puts down the remote on his desk and turns to the stack of papers.
From outside the cubicle, though, we see the woman in the pantsuit walk by again - from the same direction as last time.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Jeremy Silverberg, 37, Upon His Graduation From Life
Ah, er- I was just walking my dog in town, and the truck lost control, and I assume, well- I'm dead, aren't I? This is it?
[Laughter]
This is it. Wow.
[A beat, more laughter]
I'm just saying that it's the kind of thing you always hear about happening, but here I am. Does everyone get this? Is this heaven? What's even going on?
[The speaker leans from the microphone, some inaudible discussion between him and someone backstage]
Oh, I see. Well, like, don't take life for granted, spend more time with your family, and, uh-
[Last Pause]
Look, I just died or whatever, can I at least get a minute to make some notes?
[Laughter]
This is it. Wow.
[A beat, more laughter]
I'm just saying that it's the kind of thing you always hear about happening, but here I am. Does everyone get this? Is this heaven? What's even going on?
[The speaker leans from the microphone, some inaudible discussion between him and someone backstage]
Oh, I see. Well, like, don't take life for granted, spend more time with your family, and, uh-
[Last Pause]
Look, I just died or whatever, can I at least get a minute to make some notes?
Thursday, August 04, 2011
Powers
Something's coming, and I know you can feel it just as well as I can - in the way your top sheet is fitting so perfectly, in the bread that you've had for a month that won't run out or grow stale, in the electricity you feel under your fingers. You can pretend not to notice it all you want, but the fact is plain: science is dying and we're making out like bandits in the will. You have powers, friend. It might be time you decide how you're going to use them.
Saturday, July 02, 2011
Easy Furniture
The post office in is small; I remember you drove by it the first time you went to pick up stamps - the single-lane road it sits on (speed limit 50, cops strict and swift and frequent), houses a hundred yards apart and with driveways twice that length. Take McGuire Hill past the cemetery to US-1 and bear right. Mark your odometer. Six miles and on the left, just after the sign for strawberries. It has white vinyl siding, and the postmaster wears the same sort of boat shoes as your dad.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Lists: Camp Edition
1. Sadness of the foreign, sadness of gossip, sadness of rusty nails, sadness of early mornings, sadness of cold nights, sadness of being left out, sadness of unanswered questions, sadness of lice, sadness of tradition, sadness of medication, sadness of rain, sadness of chicken pot pie.
2. Toilet, sink/mirror, trash/outside, box benches, porch (x2), sweep (x2), shades/shelves.
3. Ice cream, a normal sleep schedule, letters.
2. Toilet, sink/mirror, trash/outside, box benches, porch (x2), sweep (x2), shades/shelves.
3. Ice cream, a normal sleep schedule, letters.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Herbert Dainer Knows The World is Ending Tomorrow
Herbert Dainer knows the world is ending tomorrow.
I mean the guy isn't crazy. He's gone through life up to this point feeling sad for all those who prophesied about the apocalypse - feeling sad in a kind of superior way, but feeling sad none-the-less, I think. Regardless, though, the point stands: Herb knows the world will end tomorrow. He doesn't know how and he doesn't know why, but he knows. He knows for sure.
And what do you do about that? Knowing he's surrounded by reasonable and scientific people, what do you do? How do you make your son stay home from his sleep-over so you can spend the last hours you have as a family? How do you get your wife to come home early from a business trip?
Herbert takes a drive and thinks it over.
I mean the guy isn't crazy. He's gone through life up to this point feeling sad for all those who prophesied about the apocalypse - feeling sad in a kind of superior way, but feeling sad none-the-less, I think. Regardless, though, the point stands: Herb knows the world will end tomorrow. He doesn't know how and he doesn't know why, but he knows. He knows for sure.
And what do you do about that? Knowing he's surrounded by reasonable and scientific people, what do you do? How do you make your son stay home from his sleep-over so you can spend the last hours you have as a family? How do you get your wife to come home early from a business trip?
Herbert takes a drive and thinks it over.
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
Family (Sketch)
This isn't supposed to be my family, just for the record. This is mostly just to show off my awesome drawing skills, which aren't at all like a 12-year-old's.
Saturday, June 04, 2011
Barton Shows Up Drunk To Her House
Late August. On his 21st birthday, Barton shows up drunk to her house. They both are working for the same lawfirm this summer - he dropped out of school after a month three years ago and now does clerical work there full-time; she'll be completing her major in political science with a concentration in legal studies a semester early this coming December.
Barton? Sarah says.
Yep, he says in return - neck tilted down and back, lids heavy - and then he throws up on her doorstep. Doesn't even bother trying to turn his head a little bit, just all over the mat, just like that. And then he starts crying.
But her parents are out of town so what does any of it matter anyway? She'll never see him again after this summer, and it's not like after tonight they'll act anything different from the mildly friendly way they did earlier today. The story won't get mentioned so it might have never have happened, none of it - the way she takes him upstairs and cleans him up and puts him in her brother's bed, the way he keeps talking and she keeps quietly murmuring her assents, the way she brushes his hair back and kisses him kind of softly. We had to cheat to find these details out right, but it's a nice story, anyway.
Barton? Sarah says.
Yep, he says in return - neck tilted down and back, lids heavy - and then he throws up on her doorstep. Doesn't even bother trying to turn his head a little bit, just all over the mat, just like that. And then he starts crying.
But her parents are out of town so what does any of it matter anyway? She'll never see him again after this summer, and it's not like after tonight they'll act anything different from the mildly friendly way they did earlier today. The story won't get mentioned so it might have never have happened, none of it - the way she takes him upstairs and cleans him up and puts him in her brother's bed, the way he keeps talking and she keeps quietly murmuring her assents, the way she brushes his hair back and kisses him kind of softly. We had to cheat to find these details out right, but it's a nice story, anyway.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Reasons to Lie Still in Bed
1. You are in the back of a pickup truck, green and not too worn-in, wrapped head-to-toe in a blanket wrapped in a carpet and covered by garden tools and old violin cases and battered end tables. The darkness is consuming and warm, like felt, like warm felt. Your best friend is driving, his girlfriend sits shotgun, and they are approaching a checkpoint.
2. You are in a sledding race that starts on the top of a mountain so high it takes a day and night to get to the finish line. The sled is totally enclosed and designed to be ridden on your stomach - your head goes in front; there is not enough room to change position. You are approaching the portion of the race where the track is straight and the incline is easy - where the snow hums low under the wooden slats, where participants are encouraged to try to get some rest.
3. You are in your bed. The top bunk. Your roommate is below you and he has an early class.
2. You are in a sledding race that starts on the top of a mountain so high it takes a day and night to get to the finish line. The sled is totally enclosed and designed to be ridden on your stomach - your head goes in front; there is not enough room to change position. You are approaching the portion of the race where the track is straight and the incline is easy - where the snow hums low under the wooden slats, where participants are encouraged to try to get some rest.
3. You are in your bed. The top bunk. Your roommate is below you and he has an early class.
Sunday, May 08, 2011
Little Things
This will happen to you too: after the hard part, after all the terrible dinner small talk and the name games, after you've given up on some high school friends and worked hard to keep a choice few, after you've lost your campus map. After all that, I mean, you will start to notice the similarities. The way the rugby captain - the one who let the team set fire to his car in honor of their victory at regionals - smiles in the same way as your eternally nervous finger-picking co-captain from knowledge bowl; the way that sophomore in your a capella group shakes you by the shoulders and grits his teeth after a bad pun just like your best friend from back home; the way the girl down the hall orders Subway like your ex: a six-inch meatball on italian with provolone cheese and nothing else, thanks.
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Seasons, Drinking
It's come to this.
1.
The fall is firework displays in colors bright and brash,
A veritable light show to be raked and hauled and trashed.
Yes nothing quite beats days that grow as short as they are cold.
If I said Fall was crappy I don't think that would be bold.
2.
Now winter, that's an easy one, with all the cold and ice,
And though you'll come by people who will say the snow is nice,
Whose eyes will sparkle listening of Santa and his elves
I think that all the car crashes can speak fine for themselves.
3.
The birds sing in the morning and you whine they wake you up.
I understand the problem given what was in your cup.
My friend and I discussed it and decided here's the thing:
These birds are just another reason why we hate the spring.
4.
And finally there's summer, days of heat, and dry, and sweat,
Of traffic jams on Fridays and of cell phones cracked and wet,
Of searing sandy sunburns and of sailboats lost at sea,
I guess the fact is frankly there's no season that's for me.
1.
The fall is firework displays in colors bright and brash,
A veritable light show to be raked and hauled and trashed.
Yes nothing quite beats days that grow as short as they are cold.
If I said Fall was crappy I don't think that would be bold.
2.
Now winter, that's an easy one, with all the cold and ice,
And though you'll come by people who will say the snow is nice,
Whose eyes will sparkle listening of Santa and his elves
I think that all the car crashes can speak fine for themselves.
3.
The birds sing in the morning and you whine they wake you up.
I understand the problem given what was in your cup.
My friend and I discussed it and decided here's the thing:
These birds are just another reason why we hate the spring.
4.
And finally there's summer, days of heat, and dry, and sweat,
Of traffic jams on Fridays and of cell phones cracked and wet,
Of searing sandy sunburns and of sailboats lost at sea,
I guess the fact is frankly there's no season that's for me.
Monday, April 11, 2011
This
One day I will write something with a plot and characters and everything, the works, a grand story arc about the nature of identity and love and coming of age in America, and I will take a photograph that is so related and beautiful it will just make you cry. In the mean time, though, I'm probably going to keep doing this random scene posts that are really and transparently just mildly exaggerated moments from my own life written in the third person,
he said.
AND THEN SHARKS ETCETERA.
he said.
AND THEN SHARKS ETCETERA.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
March
Tuesday night he goes out driving. It's spring break and no one's home and everything's closed and so something's got to keep him from picking at his fingers, anyway. He gets as far as the state line before he stops at the gas station to marvel at how low the prices of cigarettes are, and then he looks up and calls it a night. He's not going to get far enough away from the city for the ugly orange glow to stop blocking out the stars, so what's the point really?
He considers it again on Wednesday a little after midnight, but eventually he gives it up. A band-aid will do just fine to cover up that blister on his right thumb, and there's nothing wrong with staying inside for an entire day.
He considers it again on Wednesday a little after midnight, but eventually he gives it up. A band-aid will do just fine to cover up that blister on his right thumb, and there's nothing wrong with staying inside for an entire day.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Briefly Imagined Conversations
2:30 AM, a dark dorm room. SAM is getting into bed.
SAM
Alright body, it's pretty late and I have a midterm pretty early tomorrow. Time to go to sleep.
BODY
Nah.
SAM
What?
BODY
Nah, not really feeling the whole sleep thing right now.
SAM
What do you mean you're "not really feeling the whole sleep thing right now"?
BODY
I'm just not really tired. It's not sleep time.
SAM
It's 2:30 in the morning.
BODY
Yeah, I know, we'll sleep later. I got you, bud.
SAM
No, I have class later! We have to sleep now.
BODY
No, no man. Sleep later. This is the "lie horizontally in the dark and be alert and worrying about the future" time. Should last about forty-five minutes I'd say.
SAM
Forty-five minutes?
BODY
Yeah, and then we'll sleep for like a good nine hours. Shit will be so cash.
SAM
No, no, listen to me: we can't sleep later. I have to be up early tomorrow. This is when we have to do this.
BODY
No, remember that twenty minute nap you took at 4:00? That means we can't sleep for another 11 hours.
SAM
What?
BODY
Yep.
SAM pauses for thought. He turn onto his back. His roommate sniffs.
SAM
Okay, look: I'm just going to lie completely still until you get tired. Please, please, please try to do it as soon as you can.
Another beat. SAM lies completely still.
BODY
I'm hungry.
SAM
Alright body, it's pretty late and I have a midterm pretty early tomorrow. Time to go to sleep.
BODY
Nah.
A beat. SAM freezes.
SAM
What?
BODY
Nah, not really feeling the whole sleep thing right now.
SAM
What do you mean you're "not really feeling the whole sleep thing right now"?
BODY
I'm just not really tired. It's not sleep time.
SAM
It's 2:30 in the morning.
BODY
Yeah, I know, we'll sleep later. I got you, bud.
SAM
No, I have class later! We have to sleep now.
BODY
No, no man. Sleep later. This is the "lie horizontally in the dark and be alert and worrying about the future" time. Should last about forty-five minutes I'd say.
SAM
Forty-five minutes?
BODY
Yeah, and then we'll sleep for like a good nine hours. Shit will be so cash.
SAM
No, no, listen to me: we can't sleep later. I have to be up early tomorrow. This is when we have to do this.
BODY
No, remember that twenty minute nap you took at 4:00? That means we can't sleep for another 11 hours.
SAM
What?
BODY
Yep.
SAM pauses for thought. He turn onto his back. His roommate sniffs.
SAM
Okay, look: I'm just going to lie completely still until you get tired. Please, please, please try to do it as soon as you can.
Another beat. SAM lies completely still.
BODY
I'm hungry.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
In Death, as in Life
Mayford County, Georgia: In death, as in life, Gladys Lee Pierce wakes up early to make breakfast for her husband Joe.
There was an understanding between them that he would be the first to go - she was stronger; she was born to play the affable, white-haired southern matriarch - and so when she got run down in the Kroger parking lot down by 78 Joe was understandably upset. The funeral came and went, and, now, finally and weeks later, he runs out of the tuna salad and roast beef his children brought him upon his wife's passing. They fly home. He watches a lot of TV.
And then Joe wakes up one morning and there's an omelette in front of his spot at the kitchen table - ham and celery, his favorite. This persists for the next week straight: raisin bran with a banana cut in, oatmeal and brown sugar, french toast. No explanation, and yet it is undeniably Gladys' cooking.
On Thursday he sets an alarm and wakes up early and she's not there but there's a plate of grits waiting; on Friday he stays up late and when he finally passes out on the old recliner a strawberry shortcake sneaks onto the counter.
And I mean that's it. Joe never sees her again. He takes up fly fishing again, he spends his evenings at the billiards hall down the street. And when his family asks him how he's doing he tells them: I'm eating alright.
There was an understanding between them that he would be the first to go - she was stronger; she was born to play the affable, white-haired southern matriarch - and so when she got run down in the Kroger parking lot down by 78 Joe was understandably upset. The funeral came and went, and, now, finally and weeks later, he runs out of the tuna salad and roast beef his children brought him upon his wife's passing. They fly home. He watches a lot of TV.
And then Joe wakes up one morning and there's an omelette in front of his spot at the kitchen table - ham and celery, his favorite. This persists for the next week straight: raisin bran with a banana cut in, oatmeal and brown sugar, french toast. No explanation, and yet it is undeniably Gladys' cooking.
On Thursday he sets an alarm and wakes up early and she's not there but there's a plate of grits waiting; on Friday he stays up late and when he finally passes out on the old recliner a strawberry shortcake sneaks onto the counter.
And I mean that's it. Joe never sees her again. He takes up fly fishing again, he spends his evenings at the billiards hall down the street. And when his family asks him how he's doing he tells them: I'm eating alright.
Sunday, March 06, 2011
Office Hours
Oh, Timmy! Please come in.
No, it's no trouble at all, that's what office hours are for. What part specifically were you having trouble with?
The blocks, of course. When I saw you knock down Clarissa's tower and then stomp on her juice box I figured you might be encountering some difficulties. Let's just take them out here and see what we've got so far.
Okay, see, right away, you're trying to start out with this triangle piece as the base of your structure. That's going to be a problem because- well, try to balance this other block on top.
Exactly! So what could you maybe use instead?
You know we don't mix the blocks and the play-dough.
Yes! The square block would be perfect. Give that a try.
Well, I'm just glad I could help you out. Is there anything else you wanted to go over?
Sure, we could do that. Let's just see what your notes look like, did you bring your- yeah, see, again, right away, Batman isn't a month. What could-
There's no need to be vulgar, Timmy.
No, it's no trouble at all, that's what office hours are for. What part specifically were you having trouble with?
The blocks, of course. When I saw you knock down Clarissa's tower and then stomp on her juice box I figured you might be encountering some difficulties. Let's just take them out here and see what we've got so far.
Okay, see, right away, you're trying to start out with this triangle piece as the base of your structure. That's going to be a problem because- well, try to balance this other block on top.
Exactly! So what could you maybe use instead?
You know we don't mix the blocks and the play-dough.
Yes! The square block would be perfect. Give that a try.
Well, I'm just glad I could help you out. Is there anything else you wanted to go over?
Sure, we could do that. Let's just see what your notes look like, did you bring your- yeah, see, again, right away, Batman isn't a month. What could-
There's no need to be vulgar, Timmy.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
The Bat-Mobile (Revisited)
This is a pun I posted a couple weeks ago re-illustrated by the amazingly talented Molly. A lot of people didn't get the original because of my unbelievably poor drawing skills, so I asked her to draw me a new version. She took the time to do so, and I have to say that I really love how it came out. Thanks Molly!
Friday, February 18, 2011
A Great Flood
Wednesday: Sam writes a story about Jesse which goes like this: a huge storm rages over the Berkshires for 40 days and 40 nights and the whole place ends up underwater. While his friends try to keep afloat, Jesse hovers above them inexplicably - they tread water, soaked and freezing and desperate, and he just looks down at them sadly - I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Thursday: It starts raining.
Thursday: It starts raining.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Setting Alarms
Little things, Alex thinks, her head under her desk as it moves around her room in the dark. Writing sticky notes, taking photographs, setting alarms. Do they do that too? Do they get frustrated when their sheets slip off in the night? Do they smile?
I mean you can't blame her for this, that she stayed. When word first hit the college's online forums, when the army was still trying to get it together, people started leaving and then never came back. She called her parents; they didn't call back. She stayed.
And they - they - hadn't been around these parts for so long. She had gotten lonely and then accustomed and then sloppy. She turned lights on at night. She played music out loud.
It touches the bed that used to belong to her roommate. Alex remembers this, mainly: that they had a fight about reading too late at night, and then Alex saw her get devoured on the lawn in front of the chapel. It was an unusual start to the spring term.
She makes a quick list: four generators, one pocket knife (in the desk above her, she knows it's too far away, it is so fast), one radio, one winter coat. There wasn't much point in even bothering. The clock was ticking, see, and she had set an alarm.
I mean you can't blame her for this, that she stayed. When word first hit the college's online forums, when the army was still trying to get it together, people started leaving and then never came back. She called her parents; they didn't call back. She stayed.
And they - they - hadn't been around these parts for so long. She had gotten lonely and then accustomed and then sloppy. She turned lights on at night. She played music out loud.
It touches the bed that used to belong to her roommate. Alex remembers this, mainly: that they had a fight about reading too late at night, and then Alex saw her get devoured on the lawn in front of the chapel. It was an unusual start to the spring term.
She makes a quick list: four generators, one pocket knife (in the desk above her, she knows it's too far away, it is so fast), one radio, one winter coat. There wasn't much point in even bothering. The clock was ticking, see, and she had set an alarm.
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