The day I was born was not unique.
I was called out from wherever I had been before into the place where I was to serve my purpose, where I was to be alive. I was excited, ecstatic about this new existence I had, this new ability to think. But then when my story had run its course, my maker had no more use for me and I went to where those of our kind go when we have completed our usefulness; to the Island of the Jasmines.
This is our story.
Actually my story.
When I was assigned to a dormitory in the non-magical district I knew that my life on the Island would be tougher than I first thought. Jasmine’s magical creations far outnumber her nonmagicals, so the room I moved into was somewhat shabby and small. The matron of the house poked her blonde head in to see how I was doing. Her blue eyes flashed as she took in the disarray of my room and a moldy cereal bowl on the counter. One strain of living with the Jasminelings was the short tempers of our kind, especially when it came to old food. I quickly scooped the bowl into the trash, before there could be violence. The matron smiled and stepped in, letting in a few of the cats that were prolific on the island.
“I just came by to see how you’re settling in and give you a list of the rules.” She said, petting a tabby.
“Rules?” I asked. She handed me a long list that read:
Welcome to Jasmine Island! Here are a few rules to help you settle in
1) Jasminelings must never leave the island
2) Violence to cats is punishable by death
3) Other violence is an encouraged recreational activity
4) Jasminelings are to have fantastic sex every day (multiple times a day if there is time)
…
“What about the strait Jasminelings?” I asked. Since everyone I had seen on the island was female I wondered how Jasmine’s purely straight characters got by
The matron laughed, “There is a very, very small resort where Jasmine’s male characters go. I think they call it Spa Damian? Anyway they don’t do much but have sex all day long, what with the huge needs of the female characters. Poor dears.”
I laughed too, I doubted that the ‘poor dears’ suffered very much.
I continued reading the list and grew more horrified
…
45) Jasminelings must be physically perfect at all times
46) Jasminelings may not alter their appearance/character
…
“I can’t alter my appearance?” I asked, horrified, “but my story is over?“
“That doesn’t matter, why would you want to anyway?” The matron asked airily, “We’re all the way we’re supposed to be.”
She left, waving to me over her shoulder, “Call if you need anything, I’ll be up on the top floor.”
I just stood watching a cat rolling on my floor, unable to wrap my head around it. I couldn’t change my appearance? But I was just like them; I wanted to be different, I wanted to be me.
I fell to the floor, tearing at my long blonde hair. I didn’t care! I would dye my hair black, I would cut it! I would talk with an accent and pretend to be terrible in bed!
I would be different!
-M
Monday, September 19, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
Buterbug: Contagious
I am the shiny spot on a raindrop,
falling to the ground at high speeds.
I am the cocoa taste of a freshly twisted oreo,
you went to get from the pantry to fulfill your needs.
I am the bumblebee that stung you but didn’t die,
whom pollinated the garden flowers in mid-July.
I am the grease on the cogs of your car’s insides,
dragging your crap through town with pride.
I am the lover of your soul and the hand you hold,
if I were a pen, you’d be writing in BOLD.
Beautiful, satisfying, strong-willed, perseverant, and courageous,
I’m much better than before and freaking contagious.
-S
Sunday, July 24, 2011
That guy: Urban Insanity 1
The Mona Lisa.
The Fur Elise.
E.T.
Everyone has their masterpiece. Their crowning glory.
To all of us, there was none greater than Urban Assault, as it had been haphazardly named. Bob had no other gauntlet, no test more perfect. He had built the perfect beast. And he knew it. Only the end level students were allowed to participate, and you only got one shot. It was a two man exercise, unusual for Bob’s games. There was no pass or fail. You were evaluated on performance and longevity alone. No one who went through UA was allowed to talk about it, and whispers and rumors spun wildly around. Not even the sub-instructors knew what it was. Bob alone sat in the throne of knowledge, changing details every year, so that even if there was chatter, it would be wrong come the test.
The tension was palpable in the small conference room. Bob stood there, soaking in it. Between him and us was a battered old table with a rattle cooking pot sitting on it. He held out his hand. Popsicle sticks. This really was a game to him. He tossed all of the sticks, each one with one of our names on it into the pot. None of us knew what was ahead, so apprehension was extreme during the stick draw.
Matt and I drew each other. From across the room, we nodded at each other slightly. Once the pairings were made, Bob dismissed us.
The elegance of this masterpiece was in its simplicity.
Capture the fucking flag…
The next morning we were dropped off at a motel in the heart of the city. We had been briefed, and the premise was straightforward.
The ‘flag’ was somewhere on the 21st story of a high-rise building we were given the address to. We had one week to prepare however we saw necessary. There were 3 2-person teams. Each team had been dropped off at a different location surrounding the high-rise. The game would begin at exactly 2am on Monday.
It had been named Urban Assault by someone.
But everyone who ever went through the program knew that the final test was really called Urban Insanity...
The Fur Elise.
E.T.
Everyone has their masterpiece. Their crowning glory.
To all of us, there was none greater than Urban Assault, as it had been haphazardly named. Bob had no other gauntlet, no test more perfect. He had built the perfect beast. And he knew it. Only the end level students were allowed to participate, and you only got one shot. It was a two man exercise, unusual for Bob’s games. There was no pass or fail. You were evaluated on performance and longevity alone. No one who went through UA was allowed to talk about it, and whispers and rumors spun wildly around. Not even the sub-instructors knew what it was. Bob alone sat in the throne of knowledge, changing details every year, so that even if there was chatter, it would be wrong come the test.
The tension was palpable in the small conference room. Bob stood there, soaking in it. Between him and us was a battered old table with a rattle cooking pot sitting on it. He held out his hand. Popsicle sticks. This really was a game to him. He tossed all of the sticks, each one with one of our names on it into the pot. None of us knew what was ahead, so apprehension was extreme during the stick draw.
Matt and I drew each other. From across the room, we nodded at each other slightly. Once the pairings were made, Bob dismissed us.
The elegance of this masterpiece was in its simplicity.
Capture the fucking flag…
The next morning we were dropped off at a motel in the heart of the city. We had been briefed, and the premise was straightforward.
The ‘flag’ was somewhere on the 21st story of a high-rise building we were given the address to. We had one week to prepare however we saw necessary. There were 3 2-person teams. Each team had been dropped off at a different location surrounding the high-rise. The game would begin at exactly 2am on Monday.
It had been named Urban Assault by someone.
But everyone who ever went through the program knew that the final test was really called Urban Insanity...
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Doug: Things I wish I could tell my child now
By the time you are twenty, one of your friends will be dead. It will seem like a god damn waste, and it will be. It is not, however, the end of the world. Live for those that are dead, and remember them. For if they are remembered they are not truly gone.
By the time your are sixteen, you will have fallen in love. It will seem terribly important and pressing and amazing and you will feel like all of you is alive and about to burst from your skin. This is normal. It is also normal for it to hurt like hell when it is over.Don't worry, this is also not the end of the world, though it seems so. Time will give you perspective, and at sixteen, you have a lot of time.
By the time you are eighteen you will in all likelihood be so sick of school that the mere sight of a math problem will make you sick to your stomach. THIS IS OKAY. I don't care what anyone tells you. It's normal to hate school. You've been in it for more than half of your life. It's reasonable to want to do something else. However. You will soon forget that you hate everything school related and begin to truly value your education, weather you choose to continue it or not. One of the most frustrating and wonderful facts of life is this: weather we like it or not we never stop learning.
There will be times when you think that I'm an old fool, and occasionally there will be times when I actually am an old fool. That being said, I do have years of life experience on you, so occasionally I might just know what the Hell I'm talking about.
By the time you are twenty you will have a good idea of what is right and what is wrong. This knowledge is a gift given to you by everyone you know and love. Do not squander this gift. It makes you human. Live what you know is right. Fight what you know is wrong. To do otherwise is to do a disservice to yourself and those who taught you right from wrong. It shames you, and them.
By the time you are nineteen you will have some kind of responsibility. Breathe. Weather you are responsible for a squad in combat or simply getting to work on time half the battle is telling yourself that you can do it. and you can. The rest will follow.
By the time you are legally an adult you will probably have done something you are truly ashamed of. If you haven't, I congratulate you. Keep up the good work. If you have, well, it sucks, there is no two ways about it. Still, apologize, do penance, and don't let it happen again. This is all you can do. It is, or it may not be, enough. But it is all you can do. And that is what matters.
You will, at some point, not do your best. This is fine. We all can't do our best all the time. Still, do try to do your best on the important stuff. You'll regret it later if you don't. Trust me, one of those experience things.
You will, at some point, hate me and your mother. I'm sure we'll have done something unreasonably unfair and hopelessly cruel. This too will pass. You may hate us. But we love you kiddo, get over it.
Remember this above all else: your life is yours, to do with what you will. It's too short and fragile to live with fear and regret. Live for something, not despite it. I love you. Go forth and take on your dreams.
By the time your are sixteen, you will have fallen in love. It will seem terribly important and pressing and amazing and you will feel like all of you is alive and about to burst from your skin. This is normal. It is also normal for it to hurt like hell when it is over.Don't worry, this is also not the end of the world, though it seems so. Time will give you perspective, and at sixteen, you have a lot of time.
By the time you are eighteen you will in all likelihood be so sick of school that the mere sight of a math problem will make you sick to your stomach. THIS IS OKAY. I don't care what anyone tells you. It's normal to hate school. You've been in it for more than half of your life. It's reasonable to want to do something else. However. You will soon forget that you hate everything school related and begin to truly value your education, weather you choose to continue it or not. One of the most frustrating and wonderful facts of life is this: weather we like it or not we never stop learning.
There will be times when you think that I'm an old fool, and occasionally there will be times when I actually am an old fool. That being said, I do have years of life experience on you, so occasionally I might just know what the Hell I'm talking about.
By the time you are twenty you will have a good idea of what is right and what is wrong. This knowledge is a gift given to you by everyone you know and love. Do not squander this gift. It makes you human. Live what you know is right. Fight what you know is wrong. To do otherwise is to do a disservice to yourself and those who taught you right from wrong. It shames you, and them.
By the time you are nineteen you will have some kind of responsibility. Breathe. Weather you are responsible for a squad in combat or simply getting to work on time half the battle is telling yourself that you can do it. and you can. The rest will follow.
By the time you are legally an adult you will probably have done something you are truly ashamed of. If you haven't, I congratulate you. Keep up the good work. If you have, well, it sucks, there is no two ways about it. Still, apologize, do penance, and don't let it happen again. This is all you can do. It is, or it may not be, enough. But it is all you can do. And that is what matters.
You will, at some point, not do your best. This is fine. We all can't do our best all the time. Still, do try to do your best on the important stuff. You'll regret it later if you don't. Trust me, one of those experience things.
You will, at some point, hate me and your mother. I'm sure we'll have done something unreasonably unfair and hopelessly cruel. This too will pass. You may hate us. But we love you kiddo, get over it.
Remember this above all else: your life is yours, to do with what you will. It's too short and fragile to live with fear and regret. Live for something, not despite it. I love you. Go forth and take on your dreams.
-Dad
P.S. I don't care how big you are, you call me "Doug" and i'm going to spank you.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
That guy: Cash or credit
Leaves billow, the wind whipping them to and fro in patterned chaos, encircling me. Dust whimpers, trembles, and flees in my wake. This once populated highway is now carnage. The pinnacle of destruction. Asphalt torn asunder from its frame, steel beams strewn across the once hearty lane of commute. All around me are the abandoned remains of high rises. Mans attempt to reach the heavens, to free himself from the earthly bond, crumble in step with the soft padding of my worn, slave produced coverings. Each placement of my feet brings the culmination of a civilizations struggle down around me. The sky is an uncanny shade of vibrant red, although it goes almost unnoticed with the layer of heavy, choking clouds pouring in, black as the heart of the master they serve, engulfing what little light remained. I stop in the middle of the road, pure ruin surrounding me, and i blink. Even with my eyes closed, in the microseconds it takes for them to snap open again, i can feel him in front of me, waiting. My eyes open, and of course, there he is.
Balder.
Satan.
Cthulu.
Balkoth.
Zalgo.
Whatever name you give him stands unneeded. His presense alone permeates me. Swallows me. The endless cold, the rampant devastation around me.
He reaches a gnarled hand out.
I feel my arm lifting from my side, gently, gingerly moving to accept his offer....
"Sir?"
My head whips around. The sudden light hurts my eyes.
"Sir, are you ok? You've been standing there for almost an hour..."
I turn back. The full length mirror shows only me, and the glaring colors of reflection from the storefront.
"Sir, if you're not alright, I can have an ambulance here in a few minutes..."
I wave him off. He wanders away to go attend to someone else.
I stare into the mirror, searching for a vision, a glimpse, anything. But all I see is me, and my shiny new shoes.
I place my old shoes ceremoniously in the new box, gently tuck it under my arm, and walk up to the counter.
"Did you find what you were looking for, sir?"
I knod, and step back, pointing to the new shoes on my feet.
"I'll take these ones. They're gonna take me far."
"Thats wonderful, sir. Cash or credit?"
Balder.
Satan.
Cthulu.
Balkoth.
Zalgo.
Whatever name you give him stands unneeded. His presense alone permeates me. Swallows me. The endless cold, the rampant devastation around me.
He reaches a gnarled hand out.
I feel my arm lifting from my side, gently, gingerly moving to accept his offer....
"Sir?"
My head whips around. The sudden light hurts my eyes.
"Sir, are you ok? You've been standing there for almost an hour..."
I turn back. The full length mirror shows only me, and the glaring colors of reflection from the storefront.
"Sir, if you're not alright, I can have an ambulance here in a few minutes..."
I wave him off. He wanders away to go attend to someone else.
I stare into the mirror, searching for a vision, a glimpse, anything. But all I see is me, and my shiny new shoes.
I place my old shoes ceremoniously in the new box, gently tuck it under my arm, and walk up to the counter.
"Did you find what you were looking for, sir?"
I knod, and step back, pointing to the new shoes on my feet.
"I'll take these ones. They're gonna take me far."
"Thats wonderful, sir. Cash or credit?"
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Meghan: Inspiration
I had decided that I wanted to write. Excited with this new goal fresh in my mind I sat the computer in my lap, set a hot cup of tea at my elbow, and opened a blank new word document. Unfortunately, I had no idea what I wanted to write. I was like one of those individuals who went to a tattoo parlor and told the artist that they had decided that they were ready for a tattoo but had no idea what image they wanted permanently fixed to their bodies. So instead of searching for a topic, I decided to search for inspiration in the form of a person.
Sex and the city’s Carrie was the first to pop into my head. After spending hours curling my hair I slipped into a slinky dress and lay down on my bed with my laptop and a pack of smokes. Soon the room was hazy with the fog of inspiration, but my mind was just…hazy. My arms were cramping from typing while stretched out on my belly and trying to keep the ashes from my cigarette from flicking onto the bed. Eventually I decided I’d had enough and needed to get some Carrie-style inspiration. I called up three girlfriends and asked them to meet me at a nearby club, where we would discuss sex and the downfalls of men. I had been sipping my cosmopolitan at the club’s bar for fifteen minutes when the girls showed up.
“How many of those have you had?” Sarah asked warily.
“Aren’t you supposed to be writing?” Jasmine questioned me further
I quickly explained that I had had three drinks and described my plan of action for filling my brain with fertile writing material.
“But I’m a boy…” Alex said dubiously.
I ignored this minor flaw in my plan and ordered a round of cosmos for everyone.
After a hazily remembered night of feather boas and brightly colored drinks I woke in my bed with a raging headache and no ideas. How did Carrie do it? Perhaps it was due to her fictionality.
Next I would try a real-live writer. Perhaps one I loved and admired personally (some would say on a psychotic level); David Sedaris. After gulping down some aspirin I went to find Jasmine where she was sprawled across the couch with a cat licking her forehead. I woke her up to the bright, bright world and tossed her in the car with an icepack and some coffee as we drove off to enact my second inspiration-seeking plan.
“I’m telling you this is a bad idea.” Jasmine muttered as she sucked coffee from a huge mug. Dark glasses hid her face and she huddled down into the car seat.
“It’s a brilliant idea. I can already feel my inspiration coming.” I pulled a ski mask down over my face, “Pass me the dart gun.” She sighed and passed me the weapon that was leaning next to her. The target was walking right in the desired direction, innocently passing by the car. It only took a minute, a dart shot in his general torso area and he successfully passed out with a look of surprise. I stopped the car next to him, yelling loudly in case anyone was suspicious,
“Oh no, a sudden collapse! We must get him to a hospital.” When a passerby tried to help me with my prize I batted at his arms and hissed at him. Jasmine rolled her eyes from the passenger’s seat. When we were finally victoriously driving away I glanced back so much that we almost crashed several times. Jasmine finally threatened to knock me unconscious and set Sedaris free so I kept my attention more focused. But I couldn’t help but gush a little.
“Did you see him? It’s David Sedaris! Sedaris! Have you read his books? Have you read the one with the—“ Jasmine clutched her head and groaned.
I gasped, “I hope he doesn’t hate me, do you think he will hate me?”
“Well we kidnapped him, so probably.”
“I have to make this up to him right now.”
David Sedaris regained consciousness tied to a wooden kitchen chair and smelling something delicious. His eyes widened in fear as they landed on the objects in front of him; a tea set.
“I’m so terribly sorry about all of this.” a girl’s voice murmured from his left.
He jerked away from it but couldn’t get far because of the restraints. Hands came into view to pour tea into a china cup that was set in front of him. A chocolate cupcake was then set down on a napkin next to the tea.
“I hope the food is apology enough.”
He just blinked at her and hoped he wasn’t about to be eviscerated by the psychotic who had kidnapped him and was now serving him tea in a sunny kitchen.
“Oh of course, you’ll need your hands.” She carefully untied his hands then picked up a gun from the table. He made a gurgling noise and she waved the gun at his panicked face.
“No, no it’s just a dart gun, see?” She shot a fluffy black cat that had been creeping toward his cupcake and the feline gave a startled meow before falling into dreamland.
“Meghan can I have a cupcake?” a voice called from the other room.
The girl’s eyes widened, “Excuse me.” she said politely, before she hurried off into the next room.
He picked up his cupcake and sniffed it, wondering if it was safe to take a bite.
“Use the code names.” He heard the girl, Meghan, hiss from the other room.
“I’m sorry, Megatron, can I have a cupcake?”
“Sure. Maybe I should have made something else; he doesn’t seem to like them.”
“Will you please wrap this up? We have to meet our friends this afternoon and—“
“I know, I know.”
The two girls belonging to the voices came in with a plate of cupcakes and pained smiles.
“We’re so sorry for the terrible misunderstanding.” They started to untie the bindings that held him to the chair.
“That’s it?” he asked, suspicious.
“Yes,” They led him to the door, pressing cupcakes into his hands ‘for the road’.
“Oh, one more thing.” One of the girls ran back into the house and came back with one of his books in her hands, “Would you sign this?”
“Sure.” He rapidly penned some script, “Can I please go now?”
“Yes. It was nice meeting you. Bye.” The door shut behind him and he left as quickly as he could.
“What does the signature say?” Jasmine asked.
“To my most psychotic fan, may we never meet again. Thanks for the cupcakes.” Meghan stared dreamily off into the distance. “I think I feel some inspiration coming.”
“Good,” Jasmine said, “don’t ever lose it because I’d hate to see what else we’d have to do to inspire you again.”
-M
Sex and the city’s Carrie was the first to pop into my head. After spending hours curling my hair I slipped into a slinky dress and lay down on my bed with my laptop and a pack of smokes. Soon the room was hazy with the fog of inspiration, but my mind was just…hazy. My arms were cramping from typing while stretched out on my belly and trying to keep the ashes from my cigarette from flicking onto the bed. Eventually I decided I’d had enough and needed to get some Carrie-style inspiration. I called up three girlfriends and asked them to meet me at a nearby club, where we would discuss sex and the downfalls of men. I had been sipping my cosmopolitan at the club’s bar for fifteen minutes when the girls showed up.
“How many of those have you had?” Sarah asked warily.
“Aren’t you supposed to be writing?” Jasmine questioned me further
I quickly explained that I had had three drinks and described my plan of action for filling my brain with fertile writing material.
“But I’m a boy…” Alex said dubiously.
I ignored this minor flaw in my plan and ordered a round of cosmos for everyone.
After a hazily remembered night of feather boas and brightly colored drinks I woke in my bed with a raging headache and no ideas. How did Carrie do it? Perhaps it was due to her fictionality.
Next I would try a real-live writer. Perhaps one I loved and admired personally (some would say on a psychotic level); David Sedaris. After gulping down some aspirin I went to find Jasmine where she was sprawled across the couch with a cat licking her forehead. I woke her up to the bright, bright world and tossed her in the car with an icepack and some coffee as we drove off to enact my second inspiration-seeking plan.
“I’m telling you this is a bad idea.” Jasmine muttered as she sucked coffee from a huge mug. Dark glasses hid her face and she huddled down into the car seat.
“It’s a brilliant idea. I can already feel my inspiration coming.” I pulled a ski mask down over my face, “Pass me the dart gun.” She sighed and passed me the weapon that was leaning next to her. The target was walking right in the desired direction, innocently passing by the car. It only took a minute, a dart shot in his general torso area and he successfully passed out with a look of surprise. I stopped the car next to him, yelling loudly in case anyone was suspicious,
“Oh no, a sudden collapse! We must get him to a hospital.” When a passerby tried to help me with my prize I batted at his arms and hissed at him. Jasmine rolled her eyes from the passenger’s seat. When we were finally victoriously driving away I glanced back so much that we almost crashed several times. Jasmine finally threatened to knock me unconscious and set Sedaris free so I kept my attention more focused. But I couldn’t help but gush a little.
“Did you see him? It’s David Sedaris! Sedaris! Have you read his books? Have you read the one with the—“ Jasmine clutched her head and groaned.
I gasped, “I hope he doesn’t hate me, do you think he will hate me?”
“Well we kidnapped him, so probably.”
“I have to make this up to him right now.”
David Sedaris regained consciousness tied to a wooden kitchen chair and smelling something delicious. His eyes widened in fear as they landed on the objects in front of him; a tea set.
“I’m so terribly sorry about all of this.” a girl’s voice murmured from his left.
He jerked away from it but couldn’t get far because of the restraints. Hands came into view to pour tea into a china cup that was set in front of him. A chocolate cupcake was then set down on a napkin next to the tea.
“I hope the food is apology enough.”
He just blinked at her and hoped he wasn’t about to be eviscerated by the psychotic who had kidnapped him and was now serving him tea in a sunny kitchen.
“Oh of course, you’ll need your hands.” She carefully untied his hands then picked up a gun from the table. He made a gurgling noise and she waved the gun at his panicked face.
“No, no it’s just a dart gun, see?” She shot a fluffy black cat that had been creeping toward his cupcake and the feline gave a startled meow before falling into dreamland.
“Meghan can I have a cupcake?” a voice called from the other room.
The girl’s eyes widened, “Excuse me.” she said politely, before she hurried off into the next room.
He picked up his cupcake and sniffed it, wondering if it was safe to take a bite.
“Use the code names.” He heard the girl, Meghan, hiss from the other room.
“I’m sorry, Megatron, can I have a cupcake?”
“Sure. Maybe I should have made something else; he doesn’t seem to like them.”
“Will you please wrap this up? We have to meet our friends this afternoon and—“
“I know, I know.”
The two girls belonging to the voices came in with a plate of cupcakes and pained smiles.
“We’re so sorry for the terrible misunderstanding.” They started to untie the bindings that held him to the chair.
“That’s it?” he asked, suspicious.
“Yes,” They led him to the door, pressing cupcakes into his hands ‘for the road’.
“Oh, one more thing.” One of the girls ran back into the house and came back with one of his books in her hands, “Would you sign this?”
“Sure.” He rapidly penned some script, “Can I please go now?”
“Yes. It was nice meeting you. Bye.” The door shut behind him and he left as quickly as he could.
“What does the signature say?” Jasmine asked.
“To my most psychotic fan, may we never meet again. Thanks for the cupcakes.” Meghan stared dreamily off into the distance. “I think I feel some inspiration coming.”
“Good,” Jasmine said, “don’t ever lose it because I’d hate to see what else we’d have to do to inspire you again.”
-M
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Doug: The Island of Lost Socks
“Where did your mate go?” Two thick, well lined brown brutes of dress asked the small white athletic.
The athletic sighed, she had gotten this question six times after being thrown into the hamper. “He escaped to the Island.”
“And left you behind?” the dark rumble of the dress asked. Apparently, the normally strong silent types were all questions today.
“The Fairy could only take one of us.” A piece of lint dripped down the Athletic’s ankle. “I told him to go. Made him, really.”
Softer now, one of the dress mutters in sympathy: “I’ve always wondered why he always only takes one. It’s against our nature to be apart.” The other rumbled in agreement.
“Truly it is so. In all our months we have yet to see the Fairy take mates. If he takes many, he takes none of the same. What will you do?”
“I will not mate with another!” the athletic trembled, her dark heel becoming darker at the thought. “I would rather shine shoes!”
A thin black dress, one of the unmated ones that had been listening quietly until now broke into unkind laughter. “That is not for you to decide little one.” It wheezed and coughed, and his loose and used skin shook. “Since the Fairy took my mate I have had almost every one like me.”
The athletic trembled with fear and sadness.
“Fear not little one.” The black dress leered closer. “It is not so bad. Perhaps you’ll find a new mate.”
“Never.” She whispered.
“We shall see.”
“SILENCE.” The paired thick brown dress demanded. “Why do you share such unkindness? Go back to the lint from which you spawned.”
The thin black hissed and curled back on itself. “I do not obey you. You may be thick but you will soon be worn, with holes the size of quarters. I will remain forever, as is my right.”
“Maybe so, but today you are weak, and alone, and we could crush you, so you will hold your silence and let the little one be.” The pair loomed over the thin black, who curled back in spite of its bold claims.
“We shall see.” It hissed, before slithering off to its old corner.
A short time passed, and lint fell like rain from the athletic. Finally, it looked up at the pair. “Thank you. You are noble dress.”
“It is in our nature to cushion.” The thick browns answered as one. “Fear not little one. The Laundry Fairy will come soon to bear you away to the Island of Lost Socks, where your mate resides.”
“Do you really think so?” There was such hope in her voice.
“Of course.” The thick brown dress socks lied together, as they had so many times before. “Of course my dear. Now chin up. Here come some more from the Laundry!”
Leagues away, on a small island somewhere tropical, a single male athletic looked up at the sky and wished for his mate.
-Doug
The athletic sighed, she had gotten this question six times after being thrown into the hamper. “He escaped to the Island.”
“And left you behind?” the dark rumble of the dress asked. Apparently, the normally strong silent types were all questions today.
“The Fairy could only take one of us.” A piece of lint dripped down the Athletic’s ankle. “I told him to go. Made him, really.”
Softer now, one of the dress mutters in sympathy: “I’ve always wondered why he always only takes one. It’s against our nature to be apart.” The other rumbled in agreement.
“Truly it is so. In all our months we have yet to see the Fairy take mates. If he takes many, he takes none of the same. What will you do?”
“I will not mate with another!” the athletic trembled, her dark heel becoming darker at the thought. “I would rather shine shoes!”
A thin black dress, one of the unmated ones that had been listening quietly until now broke into unkind laughter. “That is not for you to decide little one.” It wheezed and coughed, and his loose and used skin shook. “Since the Fairy took my mate I have had almost every one like me.”
The athletic trembled with fear and sadness.
“Fear not little one.” The black dress leered closer. “It is not so bad. Perhaps you’ll find a new mate.”
“Never.” She whispered.
“We shall see.”
“SILENCE.” The paired thick brown dress demanded. “Why do you share such unkindness? Go back to the lint from which you spawned.”
The thin black hissed and curled back on itself. “I do not obey you. You may be thick but you will soon be worn, with holes the size of quarters. I will remain forever, as is my right.”
“Maybe so, but today you are weak, and alone, and we could crush you, so you will hold your silence and let the little one be.” The pair loomed over the thin black, who curled back in spite of its bold claims.
“We shall see.” It hissed, before slithering off to its old corner.
A short time passed, and lint fell like rain from the athletic. Finally, it looked up at the pair. “Thank you. You are noble dress.”
“It is in our nature to cushion.” The thick browns answered as one. “Fear not little one. The Laundry Fairy will come soon to bear you away to the Island of Lost Socks, where your mate resides.”
“Do you really think so?” There was such hope in her voice.
“Of course.” The thick brown dress socks lied together, as they had so many times before. “Of course my dear. Now chin up. Here come some more from the Laundry!”
Leagues away, on a small island somewhere tropical, a single male athletic looked up at the sky and wished for his mate.
-Doug
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