Some Short Stories

Stan Looking straight down, Stan saw a white surface. In fact, he saw about 5 different white surfaces at different rotations in different levels. He saw water in a silvery indent on one of the surfaces, and a thin sheet hanging over the silvery indent of another. The problem with this seemingly normal scenario was that Stan was looking straight down at it from a height. This bewildered him, because usually when he was looking straight down at something, he was standing on it. He contemplated the many different reasons as to why this was, and eventually landed on three of the most plausible. First, he might have been flying above the surface by some unnatural force, which he could have tested by seeing if the space below him was filled with air or not. Alternatively, if the space below is not filled with air, he thought he may be standing on some sort of translucent material. Lastly, he considered that maybe he was having a dream of himself floating above white surfaces, which would only be possible in his dream.

This could have been tested by Stan pinching himself to wake himself up.

Although, before he could test any of his theories, he was swept away by a gust of wind and catapulted to a disgusting death on the hard concrete floor. Stan was killed so easily because he was a bug, and he happened to land on the glass window of a house. This entire sequence, and indeed all of Stan's life, took a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of all of the universe’s lifespan. This idea of living and dying is quite a common one, since all life forms go through it. Most life forms, like Stan, never stop to think about their meaningless existence or the fact that they will inevitably die. Instead, they spend their time sleeping, working, smiling, and being miserable. Some beings, however, will go down the dark road of coming to terms with their own existence. This usually ends in either suicide or a lot of partying, but it’s impossible to predict.

1

Down The Hole I tumbled down on my side, rolling like a log into the canyon. The rock scraped against me, and with each turn it worked to cut through the velvet robes, the dress shirt I wore underneath, and finally into my skin. At the top, I was dirtied but uncut; at the bottom, I was lying with open wounds and my flowing blood was cleaning away the dirt. I rolled onto my stomach and slid forward over the lubricated floor of my own creation. Pull, sit, dampen, pull. If a doctor had been present, they could have written a paper about the extraordinary amount of conscious blood loss. I blended right in with the coarse, dark red ground.

I had to stop, disoriented by the tumble and confused as to what direction I was facing.

This Looney Tunes-esqe canyon was steep and monochromatic, the sky above it was blue. Not watery, but enough to sharply contrast the canyon’s towering sides. I was lying in the bloody dirt staring directly down the cross-section of the canyon, it’s endless length cutting through the desert. I saw the semblance of a dark figure moving miles away. It could have been a hallucination, a trick of the light, or it could have been them, who’s to know? I turned my body to the left and spotted it twenty feet away: the entrance. It was a circular black hole in the ground centered in the canyon. I scraped the ground savagely to start moving again. I sat, dampened, and pulled.

Just ten more feet, ten more pulls, the hole was so close. It didn’t move away from me, but I would have been prepared if it did. I was moving level, not up or down rocks and dips.

Down to five, the inside of the opening was visible as an opaque void. There wasn’t a surface. I was lying on a paper-thin imitation of thickness and desperately wanted to fall through. It was getting harder, every inch forward was becoming agony. Three, two, one, my hand slipped in.

It was warm and inviting inside, I laid there with my cheek in the red dust and breathed out, swirling my fingers around. Using the last of my strength, I placed my two hands next to the entrance and pushed my torso up, forward and above the opening. I let my grip slip and at last felt my foot scrape against the bloody red paper.

2

I slowly opened my eyes and saw a frog inches from my face. They stared intently, eyes moving up and down to their breath. They had been sitting there waiting for me to awake, and were curious as to what I’d do now. Their glare was hypnotizing, but not warming. I felt as if looking away for even an instant would give them ample time to flee or attack.

“That is Gloria,” said a voice from somewhere behind me. “Please get up to a sitting position.”

I slowly straightened my arms out and began to raise my head. Sitting straight, I asked “why is she staring at me?”

“Gloria is a frog,” the voice answered, “and thus looks at what interests her. She has no patience for pleasantries.”

“May I look away?”

“If you wish.”

I looked first down at my own body, finding it as dirty as it had been before the canyon.

No dried blood was left anywhere on my person, it had been miraculously removed to leave a slightly rough-looking but untorn robe. I looked up again at Gloria to find her missing. I was sad to see her go.

I was surrounded by trees on all sides, the type that I stood up and turned around to face the voice. In a clearing of trees, three stumps stood in a line. On the ends, one carrying an old man, the wood was cut into the shapes of chairs. In the center, on a stump thinner and taller, a large sunflower poked out the top and Gloria sat nuzzled into its disk florets. I was comforted by her return. The old man was wearing the same robes as me, but dark blue.

3

I approached slowly, unsure of my position in the room. At this he smiled and got up from his wooden seat. He placed his hand on my shoulder and led me over to the opposite chair.

Both sitting, he started again, “Welcome to The Forest Beside, what brings you to our reservation this day?”

I paused. “Beside what?” I asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“What is the forest beside?”

4

Delicate Scene A tree, a bench, a flower, an old man: this was the delicate scene that laid itself out before me on a warm spring morning. The tree was an elegant pink, with branches reaching out into all directions. Skinny in its center and widening as its girth approached the ground, at the bottom a crossing of its four plump legs created a comfortable place for the tree to leisurely look out upon the horizon in company with the old man. Its branches extensively lined with smaller siblings, the entire array creating an intricate web of flourishment. Only its very top vibrating slightly in the breeze, a small fibrous stem was blown from its family and spun in the wind downward. Travelling in an arc, it landed lightly on the body of the oak bench.

The stem joined a mound of its brethren piled on the right edge of the bench. The breeze had a plan for them. The bench resting under them was old and stained, but would reliably stand for another lifetime. The bottom of its legs were metallic but so dirt-ridden that the sun barely shone through to create a reflection. On its front a plaque stood in dedication to all those who never enjoyed its comforting embrace. A pair of tired legs dangled off the bench, the soles of shoes swimming in the grass. The man sat peacefully on the bench with his arms spread out in appreciation of the scene before him: a hill stretching far down from the pink-treed peak, covered in yellow flowers. The meadow ran infinitely outward towards the horizon where the sun was creeping its way into the office. The star was clocking in for the day, and the old man was warmly welcoming them back.

This place was the man’s sanctuary in life, his connection to everything indescribable he held dear. Working as a shop owner in the nearby town, he lived a quiet and respectful life helping out the many folk that approached his doors. When late morning crept up, and his daughter arrived to help him maintain the store, he took a venturous break from work and walked to this picturesque landscape.

5

He watched as the sun, already past the horizon, climbed its way into the sky above. Light scattering off his thick-rimmed glasses and beige overcoat, he sighed, blowing his white moustache gently out of rest. Moving his right leg slightly, he heard a small rustling at his feet. The old man absently reached down and plucked the displaced yellow flower from its home.

He slowly turned the flower’s stem between his fingers. Back and forth it went, its thin, moist skin rubbing off on him. The old man lifted the flower to his mouth.

I watched Tom chewing as he watched the sunrise. I felt the breeze as he did. I had come out today to ask him about a job at the shop. “Tom’s Family Department Store” had been forever a centerpiece in our town and my mother had pushed me that morning to go and visit the old man that ran the store. When I had arrived outside, I saw him walking away from the storefront and indiscriminately followed.

Now, dumbstruck, I stopped in my path and curiously spied upon him, wondering what he would do with his snack. He spent another moment considering himself, then slowly got up from his seat. It was a slow process, all his joints from sole to waist realigning and cracking quietly. Once this was over with, he would be able to walk more comfortably. He breathed out while rising, his moustache now rustling in two directions.

He turned on one foot and faced the tree, moved across the bench with his hand outstretched to push off the neat pile of fibers. He did so not with the satisfaction that a small task like so would usually leave the focused mind, or with the blanket expression of an unfocused one, but instead as if ruining the day of these fibers was a step that he took with malice.

Considering the tree before him, he raised his hand to the bark and placed his clean, pale fingernails into a break in the wood. Whatever he was about to do, he did not. He stopped, turned, and looked in my direction.

6

He smiled toothless at me, and raised a hand very slightly at his side as a greeting. Then he nodded towards the bench, turned, and walked back. This time he made an obvious effort to ignore any remaining fibers.

As Rick walked away from the hill back towards town, he took one last glance back at the delicate scene. He noticed that the tree had large patches of bark ripped off, with the clear sign of scraped fingernails.

“In the end I stay hidden not out of shame for myself, but shame for humanity. If they knew what I was they would laugh, not be disgusted. How is my consumption any less criminal than the indulgence of a psychopath, torturing and murdering? At first you see a man that has, through ”

7