Thursday, March 24, 2016

Microstory 284: Perspective Fifty-Nine

Perspective Fifty-Eight

My job is just the worst. Forgive me, but all y’all are nasty. When I was in high school, my guidance counselor provided us with this completely baseless test to find out what kind of career we should pursue. Being the naïve and trusting kid I was, I agreed to go with what they said. I skipped the four year school and opted for an associate’s degree instead. I have to do the same thing every day, which is just brutally boring. I don’t know why I didn’t realize that I wouldn’t like that, but I’m regretting this whole thing. People have terrible breath, and they take such poor care for their teeth. It ain’t that hard. You put paste on a brush, get it wet, and rub it all over your teeth. You do this at least twice a day, floss, and don’t eat anything weird. I found an obsession with brushing my teeth while I was training to be a hygienist, but I wasn’t always so religious about tooth care. Yet I’ve never had one cavity, or any other major problem. I ultimately needed braces, but that was more of a cosmetic decision. Dental hygienists are so underappreciated. The dentist comes in to see the patient for two minutes, five at most, and what do you say? You say that you “have a dentist appointment”. Ain’t nobody talks about going to hygienist, even though that’s what you’re doing, if it’s just a regular checkup. Everyone said the pay would be great, and it’s certainly not minimum wage, but there are some caveats nobody said anything about. I spent a lot of time paying off student loans, and there are a bunch of insurance problems that go over my head. And I’m one of the lucky ones, because I was able to secure a position at a dental office. With all these lies, there are too many people looking, and not enough places to work. Take my advice and stay away from the field. I’m trying to get out of it. Clown school.

Perspective Sixty

Wednesday, March 23, 2016

Microstory 283: Perspective Fifty-Eight

Perspective Fifty-Seven

I’ve had it up to here with this place. These people don’t understand who I am, or what I am. Yeah, I’m quiet. And yeah, I sometimes have what appear to be violent outbursts, but I’m no danger. I don’t keep a knife in my locker, and I wouldn’t know where to start if I wanted to get my hands on a gun. But I’ve actually heard from others that I’m the kid everyone thinks is gonna show up with an AK and just blast everyone away. The truth is that I just don’t like school, and my interests lie elsewhere. I have a group of friends who all go to this preppy private school, and I really only ever want to hang out with them. They’re the coolest people I know, so why would I waste my time with these jackasses? And why should I fill my brain up with all this crap either? Teach me to count money, and to read, and then leave me alone. I don’t need nothing else. My brother’s an adult, and he’ll be damned if he can tell me the last time he used long division. It’s ridiculous, and I have no use for it. So yeah, sometimes I skip school. It’s not a big deal. I already know what I’m going to do with my life. Last time I checked, you didn’t have to go to college to be a dental hygienist. Now, I know what you’re thinking; what kind of middle school kid wants to be a dental hygienist? Well, first off, it pays well. I won’t be making six figures, but whatever. Second, you get to stab people with things, and they just have to sit there and be happy about it. You do the same thing every day, there aren’t really any surprises, and when you go home, you’re done. My dad has an office job, and he spends all evening working at home. He always says that when he’s not on the clock...he’s on the clock. But my uncle is a dental hygienist, and he loves it. He’s so much happier with his life than my father is. So please, you can keep your Shakespeare monologues and balanced chemical equations. Screw this meeting with the vice principal. I’m going to meet my friends in the back of the superstore.

Perspective Fifty-Nine

Tuesday, March 22, 2016

Microstory 282: Perspective Fifty-Seven

Perspective Fifty-Six

People are always asking me when I’m going to get my own gig as principal. But I’m perfectly happy as the vice principal. And that’s not coming from a place of resentment. I haven’t been passed over several times, and am now just pretending it doesn’t bother me. I really do prefer my job to my boss’. He sits in his office all day, making decisions and dealing with bureaucracy. I get to deal with the students. I’m sure to you that doesn’t sound like a plus, but I got into teaching in order to shape young minds, not to sign documents. My position here gives me the scope I need to encounter any student, rather than the small subset teachers have, and when I do interact with one of the children, it’s really important in that very moment. They come to see me when something’s wrong, and I’m proud to be the person who can hopefully make things better. Don’t misunderstand me, teachers are superstars. I’m not saying they have no effect, but it’s so subtle and seamless. What I do is take immediate action on a pressing issue, and I get to see the results of my efforts instantly, good or bad. I am by no means considered a “cool vice principal” but I’m not as hated as my colleagues in the rest of the district. You know how that old saying goes, “firm but fair”. That’s always been important to me; to make sure the student actually experiences a benefit from my discipline, and that I make it a learning experience for them. I don’t just want to punish their behavior and walk away, because they’ll probably just do it again. Of course I still see recidivism, but I like to think my numbers would be lower than the national average. I do have this one kid who has to come in all the time. I feel for him, I really do. He is incredibly clever, but the problem is how much he vocalizes what he knows. He takes his assignments profoundly seriously, and always has to make sure to become an authority on the matter, but sometimes just so he can argue with his teachers about it. I want to encourage him to explore his passions, especially for history. I want to fuel his thirst for all knowledge, but I need to find a way to teach him restraint. You need to know when to keep your mouth shut, am I right? Maybe we just need to find a subject with which he struggles. Maybe that will give him a glimpse of what it’s like for the rest of us. We’ll look into that when he inevitably returns to me within the week. For now, I’m due to speak with a particularly troubled child.

Perspective Fifty-Eight

Monday, March 21, 2016

Microstory 281: Perspective Fifty-Six

Perspective Fifty-Five

“My name is Thomas Edison. Most people know me as the father of many inventions. But what you don’t know is that I stole a not insignificant number of them. You see, inventing isn’t about starting from scratch with an idea and developing it until it’s done. No, it’s about incremental refinements and enhancements to preexisting products. Using what wealth I had already accrued, I exploited legal loopholes and co-opted ideas could put in the time and effort into creating something. They were then contractually obligated to hand over their ideas and creations so that I could patent them. I even sued independent people and companies for patents the rights to which I was not entitled to hold.”
That was the beginning of my presentation for our huge eighth grade project. We were tasked with choosing an historical figure and portraying them in little plays so that parents and other visitors could watch. The teacher was neither happy nor impressed with my research. The point of the assignment was apparently to conform with socially accepted “knowledge” on history, rather than actual true knowledge. I’ve always been like this; more knowledgeable of the facts than my supposed teachers. We’re all taught that George Washington said he couldn’t lie about chopping down his father’s cherry tree, which is ironic, because if he had ever tried to convince someone that the incident happened, he would have been lying. My third grade teacher thought violins were distinguished from violas by having six strings, instead of four. I even had a screaming match against my science teacher who said chameleons changed color to blend in, when it really has more to do with mating and temperature regulation. This is just the latest adventure in my perpetual need to be right all the time. The thing is, though, that it’s not just that I have to be right; it’s that I am. I don’t ever say anything that isn’t true, unless I’m claiming to my parents that I didn’t put on a makeshift hazmat suit so that I could see what our neighbor’s house looks like while it’s being fumigated. Welp, I’m being called into the vice principal’s office. Again. Wish me luck. Oh no, this is still theatre. Tell me to break a leg.

Perspective Fifty-Seven

Sunday, March 20, 2016

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 12, 2067

“So, you killed him.”
“I don’t know that I would look at it that way. I was responsible for his death.”
“No,” Leona said clearly. “There was a bomb. It was not about to explode; it was actually in the middle of exploding. He was safe on the other side of a barrier, until you pushed him past it so that he was in danger. Then the bomb finished exploding, and killed him. You killed him.”
“He was torturing us, Leona.”
“Do I seem like the kind of person who thinks that makes a difference?”
“Yes,” Mateo lied.
She didn’t respond.
“It wasn’t really killing him. He said he was immortal. And if he didn’t want to explode at all, he should have been able to jump out of the way, or hold time in place, or...or something!”
“It is irrelevant whether he survived or not. You pushed him through with the intention to kill him. You didn’t want him to survive, and if you really thought there would be no chance of you succeeding, you wouldn’t have done it, because now he’s angry.”
“Well...” she had him there.
“How can I be with someone I don’t trust to not murder the next guy who comes along?”
Mateo was going to double down on the argument. “Well, you obviously don’t have a choice, do you? You didn’t choose me in the first place. You were literally fated to be with me. The powers that be made it so. They’re the ones doing all of this. And I don’t know if The Rogue was, or is, a power or a chooser, but he was a threat. If the powers wanted to stop him, they could, with a wave of a hand. None of this is my fault.”
“You still have the gift of free will.”
“No, I don’t, Leona. I don’t. No one does. That’s the whole point. The regular humans, as in the non-salmon, they don’t have choice either. When you have a group of people this powerful, and they’re not benevolent gods who choose to give us free will, then it doesn’t exist.”
“You could have chosen to not push him through the barrier. That was a choice, unless someone was controlling your mind.”
“Maybe they were!” Mateo screamed. “We know they can do that! Either way, I had to try. Yes, I killed him. Or at least I attempted to. Because what I’m really going for is protecting us, so I felt I had no other choice but to give it a shot. You weren’t there. You didn’t see it; I’m just telling you about it. In fact, you weren’t there for the last two years! I was alone on an island for half of it, and stranded with only one other person on a lifeboat for the other half! So don’t you dare talk to me about choice! This is war, and I made a fucking call!”
“It’s been two years?” Leona asked quietly.
He had not yet told her about that. “The first tribulation was Cast Away. It was going to be four years, but he altered it. Then it was Life of Pi. He kept me in a time bubble so that he wasn’t technically breaking my pattern. But it meant spending months under the relentless sun.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know if you were dead, suffering from something worse, or just perpetually a football field away. And when I found out that you had just been at home, for only a few days, I wasn’t relieved like I should have been.”
“Keep going,” she said, calmer than she had been.
He didn’t want to finish, but he had to. “I was angry. You barely cared that I was gone, because it was just a flash in the pan for you.”
Tear formed in her eyes. “You think I didn’t miss you because it had only been three days? You think I don’t miss you when I turn around and you’re right behind me? You think I don’t miss you when I fall asleep, or you’re in the bathroom, or I blink? I spent years waiting for you to come back to me. And you were the one who didn’t care, because I was just this dumb teenage girl who threw up on you in the hospital. And only a few days before. I can’t imagine what you went through on that island and in the lifeboat, and I’m not saying my life was worse than that before I joined your pattern, but it was no picnic. My feelings for you were almost immediate. That was hell for me, and I fear every second you’re not in my line of sight, because you may be gone forever.”
He had never really seen it from her perspective before. They cried together for an hour or two.
It wasn’t until after they were dried out that they looked around to find out where they were. They were sitting on what must have been an island. It looked not unlike the one from Cast Away. A small plane was crashed on some rocks down the beach. Supplies were scattered around it, not as if having fallen out, but like someone had placed them there. An inflatable lifeboat had been opened inside of the fuselage, filling up nearly every nook and the other thing. “What is this one? Plane is too small to be Flight 29.” Leona noted.
“I don’t know. It’s not something I recognize.” They were not yet over their fight, and things were weird between them, but they were able to put it on hold to focus on surviving.
“We need to find water,” Leona said.
They grabbed some empty plastic jugs and headed inland. Before too long, they found themselves at a lake with a beautiful waterfall. “Okay, this is looking a tad bit more familiar now, but I can’t place it.” A pig came out of nowhere and approached them. The two humans just looked at each other. “I’m not killing a pig to eat. It seems...too soon?”
“Yeah, I would agree,” Leona said. “I’ll get the water.” She waded into the lake while Mateo tried to shoo the pig away.
He looked over and saw Leona stop suddenly, dropping the jugs. “What is it?” he asked.
“I’m about 83% certain that there’s a snake in my shorts.”
“Oh, I know where I recognize this one.”
“What?” She was impatient.
He tried to recall in his memory. “It’s, um...Forty Days, no that’s too long. I can’t remember the title but it’s a romantic comedy about a pilot and his passenger. This is the snake in the lake scene.”
“Well, how do we get out of it?”
“In the trailer, it looked like Harrison Ford just...reached in and took it out.”
“You didn’t actually see the movie?”
“I was a child. You probably weren’t even born yet.”
“So we don’t know what’s coming for us.”
“I think there’s an explosion, and we jump off a cliff.”
“But we don’t even know if they survive.”
“It’s a romantic comedy, of course they survive!”
“Well, I don’t know! Just come get this goddamn snake out of my pants.”
This would have been an awkward part in the film, because the characters neither knew nor liked each other. But this was nothing Mateo had not seen or felt, so retrieving the snake was easy. It was only uncomfortable because they were fighting.
As they were walking up from the water, pig still in place, they heard a rustle in the brush. “Please tell me that is not a baby. Because mama would have to be gigantic.”
“It’s full grown,” Leona assured him.
“Please tell me a pirate isn’t coming to kill us.”
“That I don’t know it.”
“I’m not a pirate!” yelled Darko, still not quite in view. He walked into the clearing, hands in the air.
“Put your arms down. We just didn’t know.”
“Are you two ready to get out of here?”
“How did you find us?”
“The plane out there is the actual one used in the movie in question. It was stolen from the prop warehouse under suspicious circumstances. I threaded something else back to before the robbery, then I threaded the plane to arrive here. I’ve arranged for it to be moved back stateside, so I can take you home.”
“Much appreciated,” Mateo said cordially. “And hey, we’re finally gonna take that plane ride we talked about fifty years ago.”
They walked back to the beach and let Darko thread them through the timestream of the plane all the way back to a warehouse in Hawaii. It was already May 14, 2068.

Saturday, March 19, 2016

The Odds: Fifty-Six (Part IV)

Click here for the previous installment...
Click here for the entire story (so far).

Do you think it’s possible that the only reason I’m starting this sentence with a question is because, in order to set up formatting, I copy-pasted each installment beginning with ‘Have you ever wanted to write a story?’ and when I tried to highlight and overwrite it, I missed the question mark? No, it’s not.
Honestly, it would be rather difficult for me to remember exactly how I came to the conclusion that Fifty-Six should be my fourth number. The first three numbers in my list were a part of me. They were inherent to my understanding of how writing, and the world, works. It’s also a bit of a chicken or the egg thing with whether I thought to come up with numbers after watching LOST, or if I focused a lot on the LOST numbers because I had already found significance in my own. But as the old tangent goes, there’s a logical answer to the chicken or the egg “dilemma”. The problem here is that a chicken cannot be born but from an egg, and an egg cannot exist without being laid by a chicken. And so they seem equally likely and unlikely as each other, because one is wholly dependent on the other. But...ignoring all evolutionary concepts (read: reality) on the matter, one has an advantage over the other. Are you ready to have your minds blown? A chicken can live perfectly happily without an egg, but an egg cannot survive without a chicken to protect it from danger, following its creation. Somebody clean up this graymatter! You’re welcome!
Back to what I was saying, when you add up all the LOST numbers of 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42, you end up with the number 108. When I started adding up my three preexisting numbers, I somehow realized how easy it would be for them to reach 216; twice 108, of course. Without any more calculations, I determined that, in order to reach that sum, my last two numbers would have to be around 50 and 80. I tried a few different combinations. 55 + 84? I didn’t want Fifty-Five to intrude on Eleven’s purpose of being palindromic. It would have been an interesting choice since it’s a Fibonacci number, but since my first three preclude me from also using 89, it would have seemed like a waste anyway. 52 + 87? I didn’t want there to be a connection to playing cards, and I didn’t like my birth year being in there, because it’s too obvious. I tried a few more, and finally settled on Fifty-Six and Eighty-Three. Now this seems very inorganic and insincere, but the process itself is what makes these numbers relevant. Yes, by the time I got to them, I had already been looking to complete my collection, but that’s what makes it so cool. The effort I put into finding Fifty-Six in the first place is what imbued it with its power.
Other people have used Fifty-Six for their own reasons, all of which I read about just now, and did not consider when first coming up with it. The most fascinating one is that Shirley Temple’s mother always ensured that she wore 56 curls as a child. I can’t find any information as to why her mother chose that number (or why that number chose her mother), but it seemed to have worked. She was the archetype of the cute child; one that casting directors and modeling agents seem to look for even today. While the ideal “beautiful person” has changed over time, if you think about it, the most adorable children in advertising are determined by how closely they resemble her. I suppose the curls themselves have nothing to do with that, but still. Hey, I’m just spitballing here. Well...I mean, I’m not. That’s gross.
Speaking of numbers, when I started writing for my website, I went through some growing pains to try and figure out how long each installment would be. The early ones are all over the place, and show no level of continuity, in that regard. But then the microstories started being between 200 to 300 words each. I think. I would have to go back and look, but I’m pretty sure they were on the short side, just reaching into my memory. The weekend stories—which I first referred to as flash fiction, and now call mezzofiction (in order to maintain that continuity)—were shaping up to be longer. In fact, they were about five times as long, which meant that five microstories were equal to one longer story. But that’s dumb, because there are two days in a weekend. I continued to work on creating a site that you could count on. Literally. Instead of posting nanofiction stories as they popped into my head, I starting writing them out in a spreadsheet, with the intention of posting them every three hours, a pattern which is broken only by my afternoon story post, and my evening photo. Speaking of which, sorry about the lack of photos. They take more effort than you would think, I’ve run out of “things” in my house, and I don’t get out much. As my methods progressed, I came up with interrelated microstory series that would last for weeks, and were connected in some way, rather than just whatever I could come up with at the time. Lastly, I decided to decide on story arcs for The Advancement of Mateo Matic that would last a year/volume each, and I planned for future Saturday mezzofiction so that I would never again be caught with my pants down, like I was with the continuation of Mr. Muxley Meets Mediocrity. And that’s funny, because my pants fell down when I realized I had no idea what this very story you’re reading now would be about.
Things were falling into place as they should have. Microstory length increased to about 300 to 500, with the mode being rather close to the median. Mezzofiction story length still hovers around 1250 words, but I’m finding I need a little more for my more recent installments of The Advancement of Mateo Matic. It’s easy to go over my mark, but it’s hard for me to be under. I always feel like I’m cheating you out of something, or that I’m missing something and it’s incomplete. But I need to get over that. I don’t encounter Fifty-Six nearly as much as the other four. And that’s okay, because magic numbers aren’t real. When an installment is done, it needs to be done. And right now, I’m only at 1119 words, but it’s done. That is at least more than I thought there would be.
Oh, I forgot to mention that I only started posting my images alongside my stories because I noticed an uptick in clicks when I did so. Most of my traffic, I believe, comes from Facebook. And as you’re going through your feed, if you don’t see a picture, you don’t see it. It might as well not exist. I’m a word guy, I like words. Honestly, you guys are frustratingly simplistic, and I struggle to come up with images that match my words. I’ve even altered my stories in order to match with a picture I already have. Which is ridiculous, and not how writing should be done! Grrr! Anyway, here’s a picture of some penguins, because nothing else works with this story. This is what you have reduced me to. Are you happy? 1256 words. Hmm...

Click here for the next installment...

Friday, March 18, 2016

Microstory 280: Perspective Fifty-Five

Perspective Fifty-Four

This guy is probably two years older than me. If he had manned up and offered to take me to his room, I probably would have said yes. I’m no slut, but this would be a nice place to get that whole virginity thing out of the way with no strings attached. I feel like I’m getting old. When my mother was young, a man who wanted to court her would ride up to her estate in a carriage and they would take a walk through the vineyard, supervised by her father. This would happen when she was thirty years old, and they would not so much as be in a room together alone until they were married. I have the history right on all that, more or less. But nowadays, kids are doing things with each other at thirteen, twelve, eleven years old. I can’t keep up! No one is going to want to be with an eighteen year old virgin. I think they made a movie about that, and everyone made fun of him for it. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. I just got these new boobies. They’re not huge, but they look good in this yellow shirt. Maybe I should have worn a black bra underneath to get his attention. This was my one opportunity to get it over with. They put a giant circus tent over our house and are pumping gas into it. My parents are treating it like a vacation, so they’re not paying attention to me. I can do whatever I want, so if I can just figure out what that is, I’ll be set. Because sex is apparently off the table at this point. I shouldn’t have gotten off the elevator on the right floor. I should have followed him as far as I could. Or not. What does it matter? It’s over, and I’m being stupid. Sex isn’t all there is, and I have more important things to think about, like the fact that none of my friends has texted me in, like, an hour.

Perspective Fifty-Six

Thursday, March 17, 2016

Microstory 279: Perspective Fifty-Four

Perspective Fifty-Three

Oh my God, this guy who works at the hotel did not want to stop talking. Why do people always do that to me? Is it really just me, or do most people like talking to strangers? I went out to get a haircut the other day, and the guy sitting next to me while we were waiting made some remark about how often he has to do this. What about me says that I’m open to a conversation with someone I don’t know? I always have my headphones with me, and I was cursed with something called bitchy resting face. Basically, I always look pissed off, even when I’m not. And I promise that I’m usually not. I’m actually very easy-going; I just don’t like talking to people unless I have to. Wow, that sounds ludicrous when I say it out loud, doesn’t it? But this guy at the hotel. He’s complaining about a class they host in one of their event rooms. I don’t really care. It’s none of my business. The airline screwed up my flight, and so I’m stuck here. It’s actually awesome, because I’ve never been so free. My parents aren’t all that strict, but they are always around. I was planning to eat whatever I want, and order some porn on the TV, and perhaps get room service without eating any of it. It’s all paid for by the airline, so what do I care? But now my plans are suddenly changing, and I become grateful for how long the hotel guy was talking to me. I’m in an elevator with a pretty girl in a sexy tight yellow shirt. She’s speaking to me in what’s clearly a totally fake British accent, asking me if I’ve ever jumped in an elevator. If she were really British, she would call it a lift. I carefully consider my words as I look at her funny. Hey girl, no. Giirrrllll, definitely not that. Shit. What’s a good line that doesn’t sound like a line? I should have checked out that pickup artist class. Holy crap, how do you talk to girls! Maybe I should have gotten more practice talking to others so I wouldn’t just be standing here silent, like a freak. Maybe the guy at the hair place knew that. Maybe he was God, nudging me towards my destiny. Maybe the hotel guy is too. And I’m wasting the opportunity. What if I have the chance to hook up with this girl? What if she’s my future wife? What if she knows a celebrity? Wait, where is she going? This isn’t my floor. Nooooo!

Perspective Fifty-Five