Cross-roads

Vlatia reached tremulously for the keys; destination secured, groping her pocket to make sure that they were all still there. Upon recognizing the familiar texture of the cross on the keychain, she counted each key individually all the while keeping her forward pace. Five keys. Just like the last three times she’s counted.

Vlatia knew better than to take them at this hour, but she just couldn’t help herself, seeking to discover with her unique in trepidation that which was just around the bend and down that back alleyway. That elusive alleyway. The road perpetually bathed in darkness. What did it hold? She had to know; but first, she had to get past the gate, over the fence and then…

“What are you doing out at this hour, Vlati?”

It was Jorgenson, a harmless old man with an accent that seemed to make his lounge twist in a way almost as unmanageable as the tangled and matted hair in his beard. A flask appeared from within his coat and a fast swig accompanied his one good eye focused on Vlatia.

“Evening, Jorgenson. I do believe I must be going…” she said with a tucked head and arms wrapped around her prize. She rehearsed her path once more “I must go past the gate using the silver key, surmounting the fence…”

“Now, now, that’s no way to treat such an old family friend!” he chuckled as he roped her in closer. Despite his age, Jorgenson had a large stature about him, accompanied with the strength evident of one who has worked as a farmhand for the majority of his waking life.

As Jorgenson pulled her in closer, the keys fell out of her hands and into the dimly lit street. Vlatia’s mind raced. She now had a witness to her crime.

Charlene

Chuck was raised like the rest of us. But he didn’t turn out like the rest of us. We were neighbors. His father was a banker; his mother a homemaker. Back then, she was just like Joan Cleaver-- cleaning the house and cooking in a dress and pearls, always smiling. But when Chuck decided he also liked wearing dresses and pearls, things changed. See, Chuck idolized his mom, and did everything she did. His father refused to have a queer son. Maybe if he’d been around more, things would have turned out different. His mom couldn’t handle Chuck alone so she found an opiate escape. The Destroyer of Grief the ancients called it. Seems to me like it caused more grief than it ever destroyed. There’s certainly a lot of grief today. Enough to bring us all back here. I haven’t been home in 15 years. I feel guilty that it took something so tragic and ugly to bring me back. Chuck and I both left home at eighteen and never looked back. The city stole us. For me it was the money; for him, the acceptance, the like-minded. Chuck followed in his mother’s footsteps alright. He became her. The pearls and heels. The powder and pills. I would see him occasionally in the city and we’d have lunch, catch up, and talk about the good ol’ days. He never spoke of his parents, though. He went by Charlene then. I got used to it, that’s why it’s so weird to see him lying here today in a men’s suit and short hair. I assume his father thought that if he was buried as a man, he would be remembered as a man. He was dead and they were killing him all over again. Chuck died; Charlene was murdered.

The Great Battle of the Beverages (300-word story)

There once was a kingdom which desired to have an official beverage with which to celebrate and make merry. Many choices were brought before the Council of the Kingdom, and many drinks were eliminated. Water? Too boring. Wine? Too expensive. At long last, the remaining drinks from which to choose were Milk and Coca-Cola.

For days the Council debated. Milk was plentiful and delicious, but nothing satisfies like the refreshing taste of an ice-cold Coke.

The debate went from the Council to the streets.

-Milk is gross! said one.
-Milk is healthy! said another.
-Coke contains harmful chemicals that can create dependency! said one.
-… So what! said another.

Thus a great rift began to divide the kingdom. Brother argued with brother. Father argued with son. Milk-drinkers were mocked. Coke-drinkers were mourned.

One morning in the square as the debate raged, a potter dropped a vase and it shattered on the cobblestone. A man panicked. -They’re attacking us! he shouted. He picked up his glass milk bottle and threw it into the crowd of Coke-drinkers.

With that spark, all took up their swords and civil war broke out in the kingdom. The milk-drinkers fashioned spears with tips made from broken milk bottles. Coke-drinkers made arrows with tips made from shards of Coke bottles. Milk-drinkers used milk pails as helmets, and rode to battle upon a thousand mighty cows. Coke-drinkers wore breastplates of bottle caps and rode upon a thousand fearsome polar bears.

For three days the battle raged. Thousands were lost. At long last, only two souls remained. Their swords, now stained red, swung feebly at each other. They collapsed from exhaustion and loss of blood. They looked upon the valley, strewn with bodies. One turned to the other.

-You know, I like water, really.
-Me too.
And they died.

300 Word Story

It seems everything is made in China. Seriously, pick up any object and look at where it came from. Ten bucks says it reads, “Made in China.” But what does this mean? Is it necessarily a bad thing? A lot of political debate has been ongoing concerning whether or not our mass exportation of manufacturing to foreign countries including China is beneficial to our economy, as well as whether or not exporting manufacturing to foreign countries without labor laws is even ethical. In order to make an informed decision, however, we must get the facts straight.

So why do we even manufacture so many of our goods in China? Simply put, it’s because of money. Labor in China is much cheaper than it is in America or first-world European countries, so it makes sense from a business standpoint to manufacture goods there. And while some people argue that exporting manufacturing to foreign countries negatively impacts our economy, I and others will argue that this is not the case. Indeed the American manufacturing sector has been declining as it is being exported overseas, but simultaneously our information sector has been increasing as well; and in the current world economy, information is much more valuable then manufacturing. Thus, our economy is not necessarily being exported or deteriorating, but merely changing from one primary form to another.

This just leaves one matter to be decided: is it ethical? My opinion is that while we cannot dissuade foreign manufacturing based upon economic principles, we can indeed dissuade foreign manufacturing based upon ethical standards. In order to continue exporting manufacturing overseas, we must be much more politically active in persuading foreign governments to adopt universal labor laws. Only then can we be totally certain that our exportation of manufacturing overseas is totally without negative consequences.

NO HAY QUIEN LOS SOCORRA

There is No One to Help Them

“I think it's really gross,” she said.

“I think you're really gross,” he said, “and also, I'm sorry. But also, it is staying here.” She frowned, and then stepped back, and then squinted.

“It's gruesome. It's too much.” The lone standing figure in the etching had his hand to his face. It was probably in grief, but she pretended it was in exasperation, so she could relate. “ACK!” would have been a good caption. She wished that it was so. But it was not so, because what she imagined could not be real, because that is not a thing that happens to real people, because because.

“It's punk rock, sweetie.” He put his arm around her and squeezed a little bit. Then he gave her a big goofy grin, and she mustered up a half-smile in return. And so it was settled.

And then it was night. They were lying in bed, and he was asleep, and she was not. She didn't want it to be settled. This wasn't a nagging thing. At least not on her part. She wasn't a nag. The picture was nagging her. It was nagging on her mind. He had been doing stuff like this lately. He had purchased the brand of bread that she has a particular distaste for. She found herself sorting the silverware portion of the dishwasher, because someone had suddenly decided that putting each kind of utensil in its proper allotment was too much work. These were not “Nagging House Wife” matters. These were “Decent Human Being” matters. She decided these sorts of issues are better to confront than to ignore. She soon found herself standing in front of the print holding a red sharpie. The caption had been altered. And she smiled.

Inspired by Magazine Article Headlines

Mary was 17 years old but the world made her at least 23 years old. Just like any other normal 17 year old girl she made sure to have amazing hair, clear skin, and used tummy tips that with good effort and a dazed mind, gave the impression of a flat tummy. She did all this so she could look cute every day and be the first to get in the know of love and sex secrets that no one really tells you. Mary was well on her to becoming the woman that will win the attention of almost every carnal-eyed male- or female.

Steven was older, 30. The world was small compared to him. Every morning he would put on his money making suit and made sure to let everyone know who’s boss, him. He had found his calling in life, the business of money making. As long as the green was rolling in, he had nothing to lose. Let’s not forget his charming persona when it came to the ladies. They called him a “tempting treat.”

They were both out for a jog one day. Mary caught Steven’s eye and he found a way to catch hers. A few days later they met in a coffee shop. Mary was excited because she never met anyone older and so attractive. Steven played his cards right keeping the prize in sight. Before long Mary couldn’t help but be impressed and after a couple more dates, she was falling in love with Steven.

After a few more dates, Steven took Mary to his home for the night. She felt blissful and loved. The next day she woke to a note on the table. It said, “I’ve gone to work. Catch a cab, on me. Bye.” She never heard from him again. 

The Following is a True Story

It started with a bundle of newspapers and should have ended with some frozen yogurt, but it didn’t. Between the beginning and the end there’s stuff about a rhino, but this is really a story about cheating.

Raoul the Rhino came to me on my birthday last year. Matt, a returned missionary in a ward full of freshmen, had wrapped him in newspaper and left him on the doorstep. If it weren’t for the fact that Matt frequently left gifts for other girls, I would have felt special.

Then I had a rhino named Raoul that lived on my dresser. The game started when Molly hid him. We decided to take turns hiding Raoul around the apartment. Each day that she didn’t find him was a point for me, and visa versa. We also lost points for each day Raoul was in our custody without being hidden.

The scoreboard was sticky-tacked to the wall next to a reminder of the prize: frozen yogurt purchased by the loser. Pretty soon my points were triple Molly’s. I suppose she was just too lazy to look…or hide. I had that frozen yogurt in the bag.

We both moved home for the summer, and Molly took Raoul with her. It was okay, though, because we were going to be roommates again. She moved into the new apartment before I did and hid Raoul before I even got there. Even while moving and inspecting the apartment I didn’t find him. I didn’t even know she had hidden him until about two weeks later.

It’s against the rules to hide him in somebody’s personal space, but that’s what she did.

“I put him there because I didn’t want it to be obvious,” she said.

“That’s cheating,” I said.

I want my frozen yogurt. The free kind.

Weazel Ball

The Cracker Barrel storefront was cluttered with all sorts of merchandising stands. A stand full of pancake mix and frying pans greet the couple as they walk in, advertising an early morning meal full of happiness. The Man and Woman, however, are interested in dinner and wait impatiently for the rest of their party. Thankfully, the store offers some enjoyment with its outdated novelties and retro candy. The two hurry to the toy corner and entertain themselves with cap guns and fart gel. Suddenly, the Woman lets out a shriek and snatches a box off the shelf. It contains a Weazel Ball, an utterly worthless toy.

“Oh honey, can we buy it!?”

“Oh yeah, of course,” he replies, thinking it’s a joke.

“Great! The Dog will love it.”

“Oh, you’re serious? The Dog will hate that thing.”

“That’s not true,” the Woman shoots back. “When I was younger our dog used to love his Weazel Ball.”

She searches for an illustration. A live Weazel Ball rolls around in a tiny cage, running into the wall over and over again.

“See? Isn’t it adorable?”

“Not in the least.”

“Aw, don’t be so grumpy – we’ll get a table soon.”

“My hunger is not affecting the Weazel Ball’s poor first impression, I assure you.”

“If you say so – I still want it.”

The man stares at the clashing colors of the ball and frayed, split ends of the weazel’s artificial fur.

“How do you turn it off?”

“You have to open it up and take the battery out.”

“Really? Now that is just – “

The Man’s rant is cut short by their friend’s arrival.

“How’s it going, you two? Ready to eat?”

“Absolutely,” says the Man.

A week has passed and the Weazel Ball resides in their house, hidden in some forgotten corner.

Key

This key is more than just a silly little skeleton key. It is actually a bottle opener.  It was given to me by a friend in high school and reminds me of those parties I would go to where all my friends would drink and smoke, and yet I never did. It reminds me of how while they were smuggling alcohol in their backpacks to the party, I was smuggling my Nintendo 64 so we could play Super Smash Brothers or Mario Kart after they had smoked a bowl or had a shot. One of those friends gave me this key.  Actually, now that I think about it, I might have stolen it from him, but I'm sure he didn't mind or he would have gotten it back.

Later my senior year I let another friend of mine borrow the key, though I’m not sure what for, since he didn’t drink or smoke. He was part of a different group of friends, a nerdier group, but I still loved being with that group. I had known this particular friend since preschool and the whole group of us had been on soccer teams together since elementary school. This same friend would later come out of the closet while I was on my mission, a big surprise to me.

Many people see my bottle opener and assume I have or do drink. Perhaps it’s because I'm liberal when it comes to talking about these things, especially compared to the Mormons here. But they are wrong to judge so swiftly. I have never drank. That's not to say I never will; I'm no clairvoyant. Maybe the constant judgments from Mormons will lead me to the bottle. Perhaps a little dramatic, but not implausible. To me this key is a token of better days. 

The Calamity of Mismatched Socks

Red socks, blue socks, green socks, pink socks. Orange socks, purple socks, black socks, white socks.

Old socks, new socks, holy socks, dirty socks. Knee socks, ankle socks, toe socks, no socks.

In pairs they come, all packaged and nice, but momma gets mad when you feed them to mice.

They come in colors that count more than the rainbow, and feel free to show them in something like a variety show.

Now something that we’ve all experienced is the heartache of losing a sock; it leaves you down and also it’s pair as if you’ve lost your luck.

Now what to do with a pair-less sock? Eat it, burn it, or throw it away? Feeling torn, lost, and confused, it’s as if you’ve lost your way.

Oh wait, I know! You could pair it with another and give it a friend! But would they stay together and weather through to the bitter end?

Oh the complexity of mismatched socks- how it puts you at a loss. But you know, it could be worse- so I will stop being cross.

A friend and buddy you will get my divorced little outcast, and you’ll see that friends you can make surprisingly fast.

You’ll walk together, stink together, wash together, think together. Wear together, run together, tear together, have fun together.

But when that tragic day comes when together you will no longer be, don’t worry too much because the end soon you will see.

Your master may cry, his tears you will dry, and together you’ll sigh. For the time has come where you must die, and leave this world by and by.

Goodbye my friends and thanks for your feet that I was allowed to keep warm. But I must move on and carry on and weather my own storm.

The Most Conflict-Raising Water Bottle in the World

Twilight – it’s a time of day, right? You know, that moment just before the sun completely fades behind the mountains? Wrong. Twilight used to be a time of day, but now it’s a word that sparks instant tension. It represents the most controversial book and film series to be released in the last decade. Whether you love or hate it, you’ve heard of Twilight.

When the first book was released, I started to see it popping up all over my school. At first I was confused, “Why is everyone reading a book about vampires?” But, I was curious, so I read it. I loved it! I eagerly read the next two books and went to the midnight release of the fourth book and first three movies. At that point, nothing seemed amiss. My friends all read and loved the books, and people talked about them all the time. But then, around the release of the fourth book, something changed.

Suddenly, I would see people give me strange looks when I pulled out my copy of New Moon, or drank from my Jacob Black water bottle. Friends who used to be Twi-hards started making snide comments about my Cullen-crest keychain and telling me how lame that series was. Yes, I knew it wasn’t a literary masterpiece, but it was a fun cultural thing that I was suddenly shunned for liking.

Under intense peer pressure, I began to hide the fact that I liked Twilight. I took down my poster and deleted certain incriminating photos from Facebook. Over time, I even convinced myself I didn’t care. I didn’t go see Breaking Dawn Part 1, and Twilight faded from my life. Whether I say, “good riddance,” or remain a closet Twi-hard, I’m amazed by the impact cultural trends can have on my life.

A watch that doesn't tell time...

I rarely purchase jewelry for myself. Most of the jewelry I wear belonged to my Grandmother Castle (on my mom’s side) or my Great-Grandmother Meeks and were passed down to my mother who has given me several priceless antiques.

However, this huge, clunky, tarnished silver pocket watch that doesn’t tell time stands apart from the rest of my jewelry. Instead of being handed down from relatives, this pocket watch belongs to my father. Interestingly enough, he didn’t purchase this for himself either (he’s not what you would call an “accessory kind of guy”); it was a gift from his parents when he graduated from law school.

Why does this object represent conflict, you may ask. Like many people, my father has a complicated relationship with his parents. During World War II, my grandpa enlisted in the navy. Once my father graduated from law school, he joined the Marine Corps as an officer (for those who are unaware, there’s been a long-standing rivalry between the two military organizations). Aside from differing political opinions, my grandpa has been known to make comments like, “Well, Jeff, you really could have gone somewhere if you’d stuck with football,” even though my dad is currently a fairly successful criminal lawyer (and he loves his job).

Despite the irksome comments and difficult past, my father and grandfather love each other very much. They share a common love for reciting poetry and quoting classic literature. And despite the fact that my dad always knows an offensive comment will be made, he always visits my grandparents’ house when his path crosses theirs.

So when I wear this pocket watch, I imagine all of these beautifully conflicting feelings of annoyance and affection, which, as I’m sure is the case with my dad, strangely brings me closer to my family.

Nazi Nick's Demise: Prologue

Rozzi leapt from the rear of the C-130, clenching his arms tight against his body. He plummeted through the night air away from the plane, arrowing straight towards the ground several thousand meters away. At the designated altitude, an indicator sounded in his helmet and he deployed his chute, his body jerking as the billowing canvas arrested his descent.

Rozzi landed amidst imposing banks of hedgerows. The moon hid behind a towering pillar of clouds, but he could see without it; his eyes glowed a faint blue around the irises, thanks to the latest round of augmentations at the agency. He still knew his equipment well enough to shimmy out of his chute and peel off his flight suit and helmet without opening his eyes, though, and within moments he was down to his customary white A-shirt and black cargo pants.

Outside of the hedgerows he scanned the mist for the stronghold. Nazi Nick had moved his factory to the Isle of Man several weeks ago, and though satellites had picked out the structure within two hours of its powering on, planning this operation had taken time. Rozzi was the first to volunteer. Everyone knew Nazi Nick had fed Rozzi’s family to zombie hyenas. He ought to have the first assignment, even if his judgment might have been clouded by his rage.

In the bushes right behind him, a leaf brushed against another, then a twig snapped. Rozzi spun, unholstered his Berretta, and unloaded two consecrated rounds into the hedges. A body tumbled through the foliage, landing near Rozzi’s feet. He toed it with his boot.

Zombie. Probably human. Originally. Rozzi sighed. Could the factory already be churning out new victims of Nick’s vile experiments? Rozzi checked his chrono. It showed 4:45:39. Less than five hours to complete the mission…

The Ratings Conflict

What are my favorite movies?  Well, they are Robocop, Pan’s Labyrinth, Leon: the Professional, and Let The Right One In.  What do these movies all have in common (besides being awesome)?  They are all rated “R”.  Now, in the Mormon community, that is a pretty controversial subject (if I do say so myself).

     I don’t know how it started, but there is a fairly strong belief that R-rated movies should be avoided.  I have heard quite a few people say:  That looks good, too bad it’s rated R.  However, in my whole life as as a member of the LDS Church, never have I heard a person in a high position of the church counsel us against R-rated films.  But, what they do say is to avoid movies that are “vulgar, immoral, inappropriate, suggestive, or pornographic in any way.”  And that will be different from person to person.

Movie ratings are assigned by the MPAA, which is a group of people.  Who are these people?  I don’t know.  But, what I do know is that their ratings are subjective and are not consistent.  I read about how some movies got a specific rating but were later changed because of an appeal by the filmmakers (even though no content was changed).

I’m not saying that we should go and watch every movie made, regardless of rating.  But what I am saying is not to let some random group of people decide what you watch.  You look at the content and decide for yourself whether you should watch it or not.  There are a lot of good R-rated movies.  Example:  I watched The Road about a year ago and the whole time I was watching it, I was thinking about how grateful I was for the plan of salvation.