Internal Dialogue 1: Talent

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Author’s note: I have heard that internal monologues can be quite boring.  So, to spice this one up, it is being presented as a dialogue between me and Abraham Lincoln over a plate of nachos at a Mexican sports bar.  Hopefully this makes it a little less dull.

After taking our order, the waitress gave us both a pert smile.  “Your drinks and nachos will be out in just a moment,” she said before scurrying away.

As she hurried off, I caught our 16th president’s eyes wandering.  “Hey, Abe,” I called.  “A little focus, please?”

The tall, crane-like man shrugged at me.  “Sorry, but my wife’s been dead for over a hundred and thirty years,” he replied.  “Nothing wrong with looking.  But back to you.  What’s bothering you?”

I sighed.  “Look, I know that I’m a smart person,” I began.  “Let me cite some evidence: I aced the ACT, back in high school-“

“Hold on a second,” Lincoln interrupted.  “Aced?  As in a perfect 36 on it?”

“Yeah,” I replied.  “When I got the scores back, I thought they were out of 40, so I assumed it was a decent score.  It wasn’t until I got to school that I realized it was the top score.”

“Dayum!” our esteemed leader bellowed, as the waitress brought over our margaritas.  “That is impressive, and that’s coming from the POTUS!”

“That’s not all,” I continued, indulging Mr. Lincoln.  “I also scored in the 90th percentile or higher on both sections of the general GRE, the 97th percentile on the biology GRE, and the 95th percentile at the MCAT.  So, on paper, I’m pretty smart.”

“I’ll say.”

“But that’s the rub,” I continued.  “While that’s good and all, I still have issues day to day, just like everyone else.  I forget shopping lists, I mess up math calculations at work, and do a hundred other stupid things.”

Abe shrugged as he sipped his margarita.  “Everyone does that, though.  I bet Stephen Hawking messes up stuff like that.”

“Yes, but that’s just the thing!” I insisted.  “What if this means that I’m not smarter than everyone else?  What if I just happen to have a small and narrow talent for acing standardized exams?”  Lincoln opened his mouth, but I held up a finger.

“Look, I use this as my coping mechanism,” I said.  “When I see some pampered idiot zip by in his sports car, I can tell myself that at least I’m smarter than him.  When a girl shoots me down, or some guy is just way more attractive than I’ll ever be, I can always use this as my consolation.  It’s my defense, it makes me feel better about myself.  But what if it isn’t true?”

Abe was about to speak, but we were interrupted by the arrival of our nachos.  For a minute or two, there was only silence, as we scooped up corn chips covered in cheese and beans.  At length, Lincoln finally sat up straight, fixing me with a truly presidential stare.

“First off, let me point out that I’m just a figment of your subconscious,” he began, his voice deep and reassuring.  I could see how he had been elected.  “But I think you’re missing the issue here.

“The question isn’t whether or not you’re smart.  It’s clear that you are definitely very smart, and you should be proud of that.  It is completely acceptable as a defense mechanism, and preserving your self-esteem is worth it.  However, the true test doesn’t come from what gifts you have; it comes from what you do with those gifts.”

I nodded, considering this, as Abe finished off his margarita.  “I think I see what you mean,” I said.  “So I should be happy with the gifts I’ve been given, the way I validate myself to the world is what should be the lasting judge of my success.”

“Exactly!” crowed our president.  “Now, I seem to have left my wallet in a previous century.”  He gestured at the table.  “You’re picking up the tab, right?”

The Beach

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On the last day of the world, the man awoke smoothly.

He climbed out of bed, wrapping a terrycloth robe around himself.  His bare feet padded softly on the floor as he made his way downstairs.

He passed through the kitchen without pause.  He didn’t need to eat.  In the front hallway, he paused only to select a windbreaker from the closet.  The wind was already picking up outside, howling past the house.

The man stepped outside through the front door, strolling across the grass.  His bare feet crunched in the dew, still half-frozen on the green blades of grass.  His feet were chilled by the cold air, but he paid them no mind.

The pliant crunch of grass yielded to the rough ridges of concrete as the man continued.  He made his way along the path, paved with poor concrete imitations of tiled cobblestone.  The wind whipped at his hair and the edges of his robe, and the man was grateful when he passed in the shadows of buildings, temporarily shielded from the elements.

The sun still hadn’t fully risen, and the world was draped in shadow.  The pathway beneath the man’s feet became rough wood for a short period, as he crossed the foot bridge over the marsh.  The wood scraped at his soles, threatening to leave splinters, but the man was careful not to drag his feet.  The rope handrails of the bridge creaked as he passed.

The bridge sloped down, gently depositing his feet in the sand of the beach.  The man stepped lightly to avoid sinking in to the soft sand.  He continued in his path, gazing ahead at where the faintest hint of light and color protruded above the horizon.

As he drew closer to the water, the sand became harder, caked together and solid beneath his toes.  The man continued, only occasionally glancing down to avoid the sharp piles of shells.  The sound of the ocean was now a near-constant rush.

The man finally reached the boundary between sand and water, where the caked sand was still damp and briny.  The pounding waves slowed to a frothy trickle just shy of his feet.  The man stood there for a long time as the sun rose, gazing out past the end of the world.

Standing at the edge of the world on the last day, the man watched and waited, a slight smile hiding around the corners of his face.

The Roman Army Upgrade

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Calcifer pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.  “Look, once you get the hang of it, riding the thing really isn’t too hard,” he insisted.  “And I’m telling you, it’s the most efficient means of transportation in existence.”

The Roman centurions stared at the machine critically.  “It jvst looks so vnstable,” one of them commented.  “How do yov not fall over?”

“As long as you keep moving forward, you stay upright,” Calcifer insisted.  “I mean, we can even put some training wheels on it at first, until you get the hang of it.  But you could totally hold a lance up as you ride, and unlike a horse, you never need to feed it!”

The Romans still looked unconvinced.  Calcifer had to admit, the prototype wasn’t the best model he’d ever seen.  He was limited by the materials of the period.  The bronze chain had an unfortunate tendency to slip off the hand-ground gears at high speed, and the wooden handlebars occasionally snapped in half, which inevitably led to a crash.  But he still pressed on.

“Just imagine, a line of these, bearing down on the enemy,” he pleaded.  “Those barbarians wouldn’t stand a chance.  You would be showcasing the technological might of the Roman army.”

“Bvt we have the finest horses,” another centurion said.  “And it is mvch easier to trample a fleeing man beneath the hooves of a horse than the wheels of this . . . contraption.”

The soldiers weren’t biting, and their accents were giving Calcifer a headache.  “At least give it a try,” he insisted.  He was starting to regret making the bet with Gabriel that he could get the Roman army on bicycles.

The soldiers shared glances, until finally one unfortunate was selected by the rest of the men stepping backwards.  The man carefully straddled the leather seat, his eyes wide with fear.  Calcifer tried to calm him.  “Relax, just keep on pushing the pedals around,” he said.  “Keep your eyes up, and turn the bars to steer.”

“This will end vnfortvnately,” the man groaned.

Calcifer didn’t bother to wait any longer.  He gave the back of the seat a shove, and the vehicle lurched forward, the man letting out a shrill scream.  Impressively, he remained upright for several seconds, pedaling along, until he ran headfirst into a tree and fell over.

The other soldiers ran to attend to their fallen comrade.  Calcifer gloomily inspected the shattered remains of the prototype.  “Eh, I got one Roman on a bike,” he said to himself.  “At the minimum, Gabriel ought to call that a tie.”

He turned and addressed the soldiers.  “Okay, maybe you’re not ready for it quite yet,” he said, shrugging and giving them his most appeasing smile.  “I’ll try back in another couple centuries.”

The bike-riding Roman rose woozily to his feet, drawing his gladius.  “Yov jvst hold still,” he said menacingly, staggering forward.  “I want to thank yov for the present.”

“Okay, time to go,” Calcifer muttered.  He disappeared in a gout of smoke and flame, moments before the Roman charged forward.

Calcifer appeared back in the popina, where a comely maiden poured him a mug of wine.  He gulped it down as Gabriel sidled up to him.  “Pay up,” the angel said triumphantly.

“No way,” Calcifer retorted, allowing the maiden to refill his mug.  “I got one of them on a toga. That counts.”  Gabriel opened his mouth to protest, but Calcifer turned away, pointedly ignoring his response.  He did smile slightly as he replayed the image of the soldier trying to bike.  He could definitely spin this into ‘sowing discord’ in his next report to Hell.

It just seems like a bad idea.

The Caveman’s Take on Modern Life

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The idea sold wonderfully on paper. “A caveman’s insights on our modern world!”, the cover letter proclaimed, and we had three agents in a bidding war by the end of the week. In retrospect, I should have pulled the plug right then.

Instead, I turned to Will, the grad student who had suggested the project, and told him that he was in charge. “I’ll admit, this wasn’t my idea when I started tapping into our Jungian consciousness,” I admitted at the lab meeting. “While I’m not thrilled about the commercialization, the insights could help us see our culture through the eyes of a truly unbiased outsider.”  Plus, our lab could use its share of the profits, but I kept that to myself.

“Yeah, exactly. That’s totally what I was thinking,” replied Will, who had been daydreaming about how he was going to spend his five-figure advance. “We were going to recruit a couple undergrads to serve as the vessels, pay them for their time.”

I briefly considered this. “Make it course credit instead,” I specified.

For the next couple weeks, there wasn’t any mention of the project, and it quickly slipped my mind. A month later, however, I found a very troubled Will sitting in my office, holding a stack of papers and wearing a disheartened frown.

“I don’t think I can publish most of this,” he complained, as I settled into the chair behind my desk. He passed over a sheaf of observations for me to peruse.

I read a line off the top sheet. “Why must we not get wet?  Do we not immerse ourselves in falling rain each morning?”

“That’s their observations on rain,” Will explained.

I flipped to the next page. “This is not food!” I read. “Where is the blood?  Where is the marrow?  Where is the fire, for us to gather around and share in wisdom?”

“One of the students visited a grocery store,” Will elaborated, sinking lower in his chair. “They also didn’t see the point behind cars, Instagram, or Twitter.” He rubbed one hand through his hair.

“Is there anything they liked?”

The question elicited a groan. “Yeah – push-up bras,” he moaned. “And once they tasted KFC, they were hooked.”

I flipped through the next few sheets of observations. “These are horrible,” I observed.

Will nodded. “Yeah, I can’t publish any of it. But I already spent my advance!” he cried. “Professor, what do I do?”

Leaning back in my chair, I closed my eyes, dropping the papers on my desk and rubbing my eyelids with my palms. I did my best to recall everything I could about popular culture and gossip magazines. “What about dating?” I finally asked.

At first, Will said nothing, but then his eyes suddenly lit up. After an effusive burst of thanks, he went running out of my office.

He was absent from the weekly lab meetings for the next month or so. Just as I was about to write him off, assuming he had dropped out, he showed up, out of breath but bragging about his newest idea. “It’s the ultimate source of dating advice!” he proclaimed. “Oprah meets Jerry Springer!”

He went on about his newest entertainment pitch, but I just shrugged my shoulders. Despite however it capitalized on our lowbrow culture, if it brought in funds, it was fine with me.

Calcifer’s Intrusion, Part II

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Part I.

 “I’ll confess something,” the devil said. “I was originally going to pull an Old Testament when I saw you, pillars of flame and all that. But you and I both know that we can’t go around whipping out the flaming swords any more.”
Despite not wanting to agree with the enemy over anything, the angel was forced to nod. “Too much paperwork,” he complained. “I mean, even just a simple smiting requires me to complete a WX1074-B within 24 hours. The long form, even! I can’t fill out the short form unless I have three angelic witnesses testifying that it was ‘blocking an active corruption’.”
Calcifer nodded sympathetically. “And no possessions for me, not if I don’t want to go before the advisory board,” he said. “So while we could still pull of a miracle if we really needed to, we’re forced to follow the same rules as the mortals.” Azrael was nodding, agreeing despite himself.
At that moment, the barista stepped up to the table. “Something wrong, Calcifer?” she asked.
“Yes, there is,” the devil replied, obviously enjoying the shocked look on Azrael’s face as he heard the mortal use his true name. “This man, here, should be refused service and thrown out of this shop.” He made a shooing gesture towards Azrael.
The barista sighed and rolled her eyes, but she turned towards the angel nonetheless. “Sorry, but you’ll have to go,” she said apologetically. “You know, ‘right to refuse service to anyone’ and all that.”
“What? Do, do you have any idea who I am?” Azrael stuttered.
The girl shrugged. “Afraid not. But I know this guy’s a devil, and he’s the only one that stops our cappuccino machine from breaking twice a week. So we try to keep him happy.” She jerked her thumb towards the door.
Angels aren’t programmed to disobey orders; those that don’t follow the beat of the drum tend to become fallen and join the ranks of the devils. This didn’t stop Azrael from glaring fiercely at both Calcifer and the barista as he packed up his laptop. “I hope you realize that, just by consorting with this monster, you’re putting your immortal soul in jeopardy,” he snapped at her as he turned to leave.
The girl shrugged, not looking particularly worried. “I get a lot of impure thoughts anyway,” she admitted. “Besides, I stopped going to church when I was, like, eight.”
As the angel stormed out of the coffee shop, the girl turned to Calcifer with a tired look. “Calcie, I know you get off on the whole ‘abusing power’ thing, but you need to stop with this,” she complained.
“Calcie? What is this?” Calcifer broke in. “I’m a devil! You can’t give me a nickname!”
The girl wagged her finger at him, in what he felt was a far too scolding manner. “Look, if I’m your big guns for keeping angels out of here, I get to call you whatever I want,” she explained. “You can either deal with them all yourself, or you can make these beans roast themselves. Your choice.”
As Calcifer snapped his fingers, causing demonic flames to gently lick each of the coffee beans behind the counter until they were perfectly dry-roasted and ready to be ground, he wondered if he was being used. No, he decided. He was an immortal devil, tasked with the corruption and degradation of humanity itself. There’s no way that mortals could be pulling a fast one on him.
Meanwhile, as the barista headed back to the counter, she was also weighing the benefits of keeping the coffee shop devil around. He did keep the machines in perfect running order, and saved them from burning the coffee. That was worth the occasional hassle of playing along with his little squabbles.
Halfway back to his booth, Calcifer paused, glancing up at the ceiling. “Wait, squabbles?” he asked suspiciously.
He heard no response about his very important cosmic battles with the angels, however, so he returned to his booth without further incident.

Calcifer’s Intrusion, Part I

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Calcifer scowled, hunching over his cup of dark roast coffee (grounds in the cup) as he glared at the intruder. This was his coffee shop! He had staked his claim, and some, some angelhad no right mucking up the place!

At his small, round table at the front of the shop, Azrael had not noticed the angry stare being aimed at the back of his head. After ordering his usual drink (soy latte with hazelnut), he had removed his Macbook from his book bag and set it open on his table, looking forward to continuing on his novel. Despite being assigned to watch and safeguard humanity for the past several thousand years, he was still having a nasty issue with the plot twist on page 79.
For several minutes, Calcifer watched his enemy type, his cup of coffee starting to boil from the heat of his palms. Several times, he felt the urge to simply start throwing fireballs. However, Calcifer prided himself on having learned from his time spent among the humans. Forcing his fingers to unclench, he took several deep breaths before rising to his feet.
Azrael continued to type, pausing only to push back his scarf every now and then as it slowly slid forward to cover the keys. The plot twist was still giving him trouble, he had to admit, but he had managed to work in some excellent character exposition. After a while, however, he realized that he could feel a second pair of eyes, reading over his shoulder.
As he spun around in his chair, Azrael wasn’t sure whether to chastise (“How dare you read my work! It isn’t finished yet!”) or to ask for opinions (“Do you think I’ve properly captured the introspective mood?”). When he laid eyes on his observer, however, the question died in his throat. He was definitely chastising.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” he hissed at the smirking demon who had been squatting behind him.
Calcifer met his angry gaze. “Me? This is my coffee shop. You’re the one who doesn’t belong.”
Azrael sniffed loudly to show his derision. “Yourcoffee shop? As one destined to spread the word of God, I believe that such a bohemian abode is clearly my domain.”
Annoyingly, Calcifer didn’t cower before this righteous tirade. Instead, he slid into the chair opposite Azrael, a slight grin flickering across his features. “If that’s the word of God,” he commented wryly, nodding towards the laptop, “then God really ought to learn how to break up run-on sentences.”
The angel flushed scarlet at this insult to his writing abilities. “It’s called stream of consciousness!” he spat, barely keeping his voice under control.
Calcifer shrugged. “Look, I don’t really care,” he admitted. “But this place? It’s between a college campus and downtown. This is where the addicts, the sinful students, the money-focused business traders, come to get their caffeine fix. Clearly it’s my domain. Besides, I’ve got my own booth and everything.”
“Really,” sniffed Azrael. “Your own booth? I think Divine authority gives me more power than your reserved spot in the back.” He leaned back, glaring at the devil, but Calcifer remained undeterred, lifting up his hand to wave at somebody with a ‘come hither’ gesture.

The story continues in Part II!

Daily Challenges: Now with Expert Mode!

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Lots of inspirational blogs suggest a new activity or experience to try each day.  Here at Missing Brains, we’ve upped the stakes, by adding an “Expert Mode”, worth double points!

1. Go for a bike ride around your neighborhood.
Expert mode: remove the handlebars.

2. Go to the library, check out a dozen books that look interesting.
Expert mode: don’t bring library card.  

3. Pay for everything with cash – no plastic!
Expert mode: change only, no bills.

4. Make some fresh, homemade cookies.  Enjoy with milk!
Expert mode: no oven mitts.  Instead, you may use two pairs of pliers.

5. Wear a fake mustache for an entire day.
Expert mode: whenever you are asked about it, you must tell them it is for “mustache rides.”

6. Make a chalk mural.
Expert mode: spray paint.

7. Read the graffiti in a public bathroom stall, searching for gems of wisdom.
Expert mode: leave your number.

8. Learn one new word a day, and use it in conversation with strangers!
Expert mode: word must be offensive.

9. Compliment someone every day, for 10 days straight.
Expert mode: make sure they can see the knife in your hand as you do so.

10. Paint your face and attend your favorite team’s sporting event.
Expert mode: other team’s colors.

All original ideas taken, without apology, from dayzeroproject.com.

Happy New Year!

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No story today; I just wanted to wish everybody a happy 2013!

Some of my resolutions for the coming year:

1. Edit my novel!

2. Find a publisher agent who will pay me millions is willing to help get my novel published

3. Get into graduate school!
3a. If I don’t get into graduate school, figure out what I’m doing with my life.
3b. Survive crisis of existential dread.

4. Get married, Fall in love, Not get anyone pregnant

5. Start updating every day Keep updating every other day

6. Write down more of my story ideas before they are forgotten forever

7. Win the lottery, self-publish my novel, put advertising everywhere, become obscenely rich, and then consequently spend my entire fortune on Mallomars.

The best argument for obesity.

"I’m bored" Activity #19,852

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“I’m bored” Activity #19,852:
Wedding band spotting

Whether it’s on family shopping expeditions or trips with friends who have somehow convinced me to tag along, I often find myself stuck in the mall, unable to stray from my post and with sparse entertainment options. In that case, I sometimes turn to eyeing the passing men and women, trying to spot wedding bands.

There are two parts to this activity; the first part is to size up the target and make my best guess as to their marital status. With some individuals, such a guess isn’t hard to make. The elderly couple holding hands or the parents pushing a stroller with their second child are usually married, while the flock of younger college students are probably safely single.

After I’ve made my prediction, it’s time to test the hypothesis. Pro tip: because the wedding ring is usually worn on the left hand, a bench in the middle of the aisle provides the best vantage point.

Although this activity seems like it would quickly grow tedious, surprising anomalies often arise. Many more young couples with babies aren’t sporting rings – has our generation fully embraced the life in sin?  I also wonder about the middle-aged women, portly and laden with purchases, who display no ring. Are they still searching for love, or are they replacing this yearning with chintzy clothes and oversized bangles?

Secondary activity: base your initial guesses upon their attire (which group is sluttier?  Which group is more fashion conscious?  Is he wearing the wife-beater because he’s given up on women, or because he’s resigned with his wife?)

For bonus points: waggle your eyebrows suggestively at every unmarried member of the opposite sex.

The Ornithologist’s Morning

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Author’s note: Language, language!  There’s some foul (heh, fowl) language in this one.
The bird fluttered around the upper corners of my ceiling, cursing loudly enough to startle me awake. “Let me out of this place, you son of a bitch! What the hell? Why can’t I go through these openings to outside?”
Although I was initially jolted awake by the unfamiliar presence in my room, my mood immediately soured as I realized what had happened. “Ugh, they’re called windows,” I groaned. “Look, you have to go through the open one – not that one, the one without the glass!”
The bird ignored my attempts at providing aid. “Fuck you, holmes, let me out!” it cheeped angrily. Eventually realizing that beating itself against the glass panes was getting it nowhere, it alighted on top of my bookcase, glaring down at me with its beady, black eyes.
Climbing out of bed, I tried to figure out what to do. Unfortunately, my bedroom windows didn’t open very far, so they weren’t an easy exit to spot. I wondered if I could catch the bird, carry it outside. I returned its gaze as I sized up the situation.
The bird was a small starling, clearly a male, as was indicated by the brightly colored chest. My ornithology classes had taught me to identify birds and to understand most of their speech, neither skill being especially worthwhile. The bird glared down at me, as though it could read my thoughts. “Man, I got bitches to get all up on out there,” it told me arrogantly. “You can’t be holding me in here!”
I opened my bedroom door a crack, glancing down the hall. I figured that perhaps I could scare the bird out into the hallway and through to the kitchen, where the back door would provide easy exit into the house’s backyard. “Look, I’ll be right back,” I said, doing my best to slip out through the cracked bedroom door so I could close off any other possible exits from the hallway. “Just gimme a sec.”
“Where you going, big and ugly?” squawked the bird after me as I left. “Hey! Don’t leave me alone in this place! I’ll make this place my new nest, shit on everything you own! You know I ain’t got no bladder control!”
In the hallway, I quickly closed the other doors, and then threw my bedroom door wide. The starling looked suspicious, but it flew out into the hall obligingly. “This the exit? At least I’m out of that shithole,” it told me as it zoomed past. I ignored the dig at my decorating skills, instead closing the bedroom door to prevent backtracking.
The bird swooped around in circles in the hallway. “The fuck, holmes? This place is even worse! Where’s the feeder at? Where’s the bitches?”
I waved my arms at the bird, trying to coax it towards the kitchen and the back door. “Go that way!” I ordered.
“Yeah, or what? Bitch?”
I paused, crossing my arms at the unwelcome intruder. “I’m sure I’ve got a tennis racket around here somewhere,” I threatened.
“Whoa there, no need for threats,” the bird cheeped hastily, finally swooping into the kitchen. “No need, man, I give the hawks respect.” I followed it in, closing the hallway door behind me and throwing open the back door.
Thankfully, it only took the starling about five minutes to find the open back entrance and to go diving out into my back yard. “Thanks for nothing, punk-ass!” it screamed over its wing as it soared into the large oak tree behind my house. “Can’t hold me, bitch! I own you! This is my territory, stay the fuck out!” It winged its way around my bird feeder triumphantly.
A large grey squirrel stuck its head out of the oak tree. “Hey, keep yer damn mitts off that shit!” it yelled at the bird. “That’s my feeder now, ya heer? S’mine!”
As I groaned once more and turned to go back inside, a large raven, sitting on the back fence, caught my eye. “Buncha assholes, huh?” it cawed sympathetically.
I nodded, rolling my eyes. The raven shuffled a little closer, looking slightly hopeful. “Got any crusts lying around?” it asked. “I’ll do the whole ‘quoth the raven’ thing if you’ve got any old pizza. Nevermore and all that.”
“Not today,” I replied. “Finished off leftovers last night.”
The raven shrugged, unconcerned. “It’s cool, it’s cool.” It eyed the still-arguing squirrel and starling resignedly. “I’ll go try the neighbors,” it announced, taking wing.
I firmly shut the door as I headed back inside. I should have majored in history, I thought to myself as I searched for coffee grounds.