The Green-Walled Tower

April 14, 2015

GoMotivateMe.com

Jorge woke up an hour before he had to leave for work and found that all his motivation to get up had leaked out during the night. Lethargically, he looked under his pillow. No motivation there.

Five minutes of staring at the ceiling yielded no motivation. Its creamy, stucco surface was like a desert of motivating power. He thought about calling in sick but could not build up the necessary will.

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As usual, the Internet saved the day. Jorge did have motivation to check Facebook on his phone and while he caught up with the witty adventures of the children of high school acquaintances, he noticed an ad on the sidebar.

GoMotivateMe.com: let crowd-sourcing fuel your wildest dreams, where drive, will, and ambition are the only limitations. With a shrug, he clicked on the link.

It took five minutes to sign up and create a new campaign. “What would you like motivation with?” the pop-up asked. Jorge typed: To go to work today.

“How much motivation would you like?” the next box asked. It was an odd question and Jorge was not sure how to quantify his necessary motivation, but luckily there was a drop-down menu. Jorge chose A lot of motivation.

And that was it. The screen showed the number of donors (zero) and a progress bar. A few seconds later, the donor number jumped to 1 and a message from skwirlz0495 popped up at the bottom of the screen: “I will text you and say ‘Good job!’” The progress bar moved a millimeter.

This was fun; a lot more fun than getting ready for work. He watched as another donor message popped up, this one from chunkylover53: “I will bring you half a dozen doughnuts.” The progress bar moved to 20%. Jorge could feel it working: he was starting to want to go to work.

Then another message popped up. It had multiple paragraphs. The username was skullpunch_drunk_love.

“I have traced your IP address. I know who you are, Jorge. If you do not go to work today, I will come and find you. I will urinate in your mailbox. I will tell your neighbors your cat is a Fascist. I will steal the family of garden gnomes in your front yard and burn them out in the desert.

“If you do not email me a note from your boss saying that you went to work today, I will be there in 24 hours, Jorge. You will not see me coming. I will break every window in your house, one each day and I will cut the tops off your tulips. Your car will only have three tires every day when you come outside. Go to work today.”

The progress bar shot, improbably, to 114%. Jorge put down the phone and went to the bathroom to take a shower, a funny feeling in his stomach.

On his way to work to work an hour later, he looked at his family of garden gnomes. “I’m doing this for you,” his whispered. Then he wondered vaguely how he was going to get his half dozen doughnuts.

15 Comments | tags: fiction, funny, gofundme, gomotivateme.com, Internet, motivation, parody, quirky | posted in Light

April 10, 2015

A Giant Hiding in a Kindergarten

By David Stewart

I went to Toronto a few weeks ago for a TESOL convention. The convention center was right next to the CN Tower, which for those who don’t know, is the tallest free-standing structure in the western hemisphere. It stands out, is what I’m trying to say. Plus, Toronto doesn’t have a lot of super-huge skyscrapers. See if you can spot the CN Tower in this picture:

Hint: it's the one over half a kilometer tall

Hint: it’s the one that’s over half a kilometer tall

If you couldn’t find it, you must be listening to the audio version of this blog (available now!)

I find it a wonderful irony that large objects are unmistakeable from far away but can be easily hidden close up. Here’s a picture I took from near my hotel:

Fifty feet in either direction and the tallest building in the western hemisphere is hidden by someone’s house (well, a lot of someones’ houses) but the point is, it isn’t the tower that changes at all, or even the surrounding landscape: it’s the viewing position. For someone like me who thinks in metaphors, this is a very satisfying truth.

I am an English teacher, but I have actually preached in church four times. I was a deacon in my church in Korea and when the pastor is gone, someone has to do it. My style is much more logical progression of ideas and much less fire and brimstone. I must have a sulfur deficiency.

The very first time I preached, it was on this idea of perspective. The question I posed was: “What can come between you and God?” The answer: absolutely anything, because it all depends on our viewing position, not on Him. After all, the sun is the largest object in the solar system but I can block it out with my thumb if I hold it right in front of my eye.

I’d expound more on this, but this is ostensibly a fiction blog and you probably came here for stories, not theology (I could be wrong, of course). That is why I’m starting a new blog for all the rational, brimstone-less essays on religion, faith and philosophy that are rattling around in my head.

Don’t worry, the Green-Walled Tower isn’t going anywhere. This is a year of big things for this little blog and 2015 is draped in ivy, as far as I’m concerned. Still, I do have a lot of good ideas that don’t fit well into this blog format, so that’s why the Tower is getting a baby brother.

I’m still not sure what to call it: the Green-Walled Church? The Green-Walled Monastery? We’ll see. Stayed tuned.

It this place is anything like the Tower, it must be one quirky church.

16 Comments | tags: blogging, CN Tower, faith, God, Green-Walled Church, green-walled tower, outside the tower, perspective, religion | posted in Uncategorized

April 8, 2015

Big Dumb Snakes – Friday Fictioneers

By David Stewart

Big Dumb Snakes

Thirty years ago we released the trains—flipped the switch (God speed!) and forgot about them. They trundled mutely across the country, delivering freight with perfect timing. Cheap too—computers don’t want to get rich.

Then the mistakes started. The book Tammy ordered arrives—along with chemo meds she desperately needs but can’t afford. The company shrugs: “Shipping error; we can’t take them back.”

An engine comes in the mail, unordered. A week later Andrew’s dies. It would’ve cost his monthly salary.

“To err is human but to really screw up . . .” people say, laughing. “Big dumb snakes.”

46 Comments | tags: artificial intelligence, fiction, flash fiction, Friday Fictioneers, science-fiction, trains | posted in Friday Fictioneers

April 4, 2015

Car Hunting

By David Stewart

My dad loved to show people around his trophy room, so when my college roommate came over for Thanksgiving, of course Dad gave him the tour.

“You’ve done a lot of hunting!” Kiefer said. I rolled my eyes. Don’t encourage him.

“Yep, I sure have,” my dad said, making a sweeping gesture to encompass all the license plates on the walls. “This here was from my first one. It was a ’68 Chevy Chevelle. I got it going down Route 46, not far from here. Single shot—bam!—right to the engine block. Damaged the body a bit but stopped it dead.”

“So you mostly go for sedans then?”

I tried giving Kiefer a warning look. My dad was going to talk for hours at this rate.

“I have tried all kinds.” Dad was beaming now. “When Bobby was little, we’d go out for hatchbacks. We tagged two in one day over in Breathitt County. We could only bring the fenders home, although of course Bobby liked to keep the spark plugs as souvenirs.” I blushed.

“Do you think I could give it a try?” Kiefer asked. My dad’s face lit up.

“Why sure! We’ll go grab you and Bobby some licenses and head out tomorrow. You haven’t tried car hunting until you’ve done it on Black Friday. You can use my SUV rifle.”

“Aren’t you a member of Greenpeace?” I whispered to Kiefer.

“This isn’t nature,” he said. “This is cars!” He and my dad high-fived and I knew that I’d lost him.

22 Comments | tags: Alastair's Photo Fiction, Black Friday, car, fiction, flash fiction, funny, Greenpeace, hunting, quirky, roommate, Thanksgiving | posted in Light

April 3, 2015

Braiding Mythology

By David Stewart

For my wife, who requested it.

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All she had wanted was to put her hair up in French braids. They looked so neat and elegant on that woman in the booklet where the step-by-step instructions made it sound as simple as looking in the mirror. Maybe it was, for all she knew, but for her, a woman whose hair was so unruly that she couldn’t even get a brush through it, it was a Herculean task.

An hour into the process, Medusa was so frustrated that she just wanted to shave her head and become a mass-murderer.

“Okay, let’s try this again,” she said, studying the instructions. “Chad and Lucifer go over Jafar and Travis.” The snakes hissed and she reached back and wrestled them into place. “Okay, now Hecate and Adolf go over Jafar and Travis.” She grunted as she tried to grab the writhing mass. One of the snakes bit her—probably Adolf; he was still mad at her for the whole split-ends treatment she’d had done the week before.

She had just gotten the first two steps in place and was searching with her pinky finger to pull Devon and Mephistopheles into the emerging braid when her cell phone rang. It was Stheno. Jezebel, who was one of her bangs and more helpful than most, answered the call with her forked tongue.

“Where are you?” Medusa asked. “I thought you were coming to help with this.”

“Hero trouble,” Stheno said. “I’m in a taxi on my way over now. When’s he picking you up?”

“At seven. That’s ten minutes from now. I haven’t even put on my makeup yet.”

“You don’t expect him to look at you, do you?”

There was a pause. “Well, I want to look nice in case he does,” Medusa said, a touch defensively. “Anyway, that’s why I needed your help with this braid, so I could let him look at my back.”

“I don’t know why you don’t do what I do and wear a hat,” Stheno said. “I fill it with mice; that’s the only thing that keeps my hair under control.”

“I want to impress him. He looks like such a special guy.”

“You met him on Tinder,” Stheno said.

“He swiped right, didn’t he?”

“But you didn’t put your real profile picture up.”

“Of course not! I’m not trying to turn the whole Internet to stone,” Medusa said. The snakes were restless and her fingers were getting tired. “Just get over here, would you?”

Just then the doorbell rang. “Crap, he’s here already.” She released her hair reluctantly and the snakes all wriggled out again into the freedom of an intractable tangle.

“Put a hat on,” Stheno said.

“No. Look, I don’t care. He’ll just have to accept me as I am. I’m sure Perseus and I will have a great time tonight. I’ll call you later.”

15 Comments | tags: fiction, french braid, funny, Greek, Medusa, mythology, Perseus, quirky | posted in Light

April 1, 2015

High Street Lows – Friday Fictioneers

By David Stewart

Thank you all for your great comments on my story and picture last week. As you might know, I was out of town at an English teaching convention from Wednesday to Sunday (learning about IEP organizational culture and L2 writing assessment techniques, etc.) so I didn’t get a chance to read many stories. However, I still intend to.

As for this picture, my first instinct was to write an April Fool’s story (either one based on a joke or an actual joke on you) and my second was that this looked like a mouthless face with the right eye winking. I resisted both of these for something much sillier.

High Street Lows

I stepped outside, fell five feet, and sprained my ankle.

I checked the road report.

“High Street is feeling very low today. It’s tired of getting stepped on, like people feel it’s beneath them. Please compliment the road when you get the chance.”

I limped to work, muttering “Good road” through clenched teeth. A storm drain gave off a little sigh of contented steam.

The next day I opened the door to solid earth.

Road report: “High Street is quite high today. Please refrain from complimenting it until further notice. Also, please do not discard drug paraphernalia on the road.”

57 Comments | tags: April Fool's Day, fiction, flash fiction, Friday Fictioneers, funny, quirky, road | posted in Friday Fictioneers

March 26, 2015

How Much for the Tuba?

By David Stewart

You can call this a second string Friday Fictioneers piece, not because it’s worse but because there was no way it was fitting into 100 words.

Source

“How much for the tuba?” I asked.

The clerk told me.

I smiled and let nostalgia glaze my face like a Kristy Kreme donut. “You know, my mom used to play the tuba. She had lungs on her like a pair of steel bagpipes. Growing up ,I thought she could put her lips to an elephant’s trunk and blow him up like a balloon, just like in the cartoons. Once, I put a ball bearing into the bell of her tuba before a performance, just as a prank. She played that whole concert, keeping it hovering in there. It wasn’t until the final note that she launched it up and out. Knocked out the conductor cold.” I chuckled, in a subdued way. “She passed away last year.”

The clerk looked amused and sympathetic at the same time. “Sounds like quite the lady. You know, I don’t normally do this, but I think I can give you a 20% discount on it. For your mom’s sake.”

“Wow, thanks!” I said. “That means a lot to me. I’ll think of her when I play it.”

I paid and arranged for the delivery. Then I strolled outside and down to the next music store. One down, three to go for my brass quartet.

“How much for the trumpet?” I asked when I was inside.

The shopkeeper told me.

I nodded and looked far away. “You know, my old grandpappy used to play the trumpet . . .”

16 Comments | tags: fiction, funny, Mother, music, nostalgia, scam, store, tuba | posted in Light

March 25, 2015

Sword Music – Friday Fictioneers

By David Stewart

First of all, I was very happy to see my picture appear here. I’m curious to see what others make of it. Secondly, I won’t be able to do that much this week, since I’m out of town on a business trip until Sunday. I’ll have Internet and will try to find time to read some.

Sword Music

The first note hovered in the air like an orb-weaver hanging from the horn of the moon.

More instruments joined, the energy rising like a waking predator. It ascended, a frenetic dervish, around the musicians, touching the forest of upraised swords. The edges kindled, maddened to fury by the throbbing cacophony of raw power.

The music ceased, except the first lingering, arachnid note. The hungry light of a thousand blades was quenched in their sheaths.

“We desire peace,” the king said, “but you see our weapons. Go tell your people.”

The ambassador wiped his brow. “There will be peace,” he said.

75 Comments | tags: fantasy, fiction, flash fiction, Friday Fictioneers, king, music, swords | posted in Friday Fictioneers

March 23, 2015

Monster in the Closet

By David Stewart

Monster in the Closet

There is a monster in my closet, waiting to rip my throat out.

I wake up, exhausted. I don’t want to do this again. I just want to get up and leave the room. I look towards the closet and in the deep gloom of the nighttime room, I can barely see that it is open a crack. The monster inside is quiet: you never hear anything until that snort of discharged steamy breath when it charges and it is too late. I close my eyes. I don’t want to die again.

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Eight feet from the bed to the door; six to the closet. I should be able to make it but that thing is always too quick for me. I have tried it fast and I have tried it slow but it never matters. Once I even had my hand on the doorknob before I felt pincer-like jaws clamp down on my calves, crushing my tibias and fibulas and pulling me backwards towards its lair underneath my dress shirts. I even remember the hem of that red sweater tickling my face as the creature slashed my stomach and I felt my vital organs tumbling out like sausages from a slit shopping bag. I woke up in bed, thinking of that sweater. It was always too big for me, but I couldn’t give it away since my grandma had given it to me.

I have even tried just waiting. Once, I waited for what seemed like hours, biding my time until the sun rose and burned away the mists of this unending nightmare. But the sun never rose and I waited until my bladder was bursting. I wet the bed and waited some more until I was cold and stinking and frantic. I screamed, “Come get me, you bastard!” and ran for the door.

It came. It got me.

After that, I woke up in bed, in that same eternal half-darkness. I thought I could smell a faint aroma of urine, which scared me almost as much as the monster, but I didn’t know why.

Now, I sit up in bed. No reaction. Slowly, I take one pillow and hold it to my back. I prop the other in front of me and pulling out the thinnest blanket, I tie them to me. I cinch it so tight that I can barely breathe. Slowly, oh so slowly like a sloth on tranquilizers, I lower my foot to the ground.

As soon as I touch carpet, I’m off. There is a roar and a shriek of angry, Stygian breath. My hand is on the handle when I am yanked back. I scream and pull hard. There is a ripping sound and the pillow is torn away. I yank the door open and then I am out, in the dark hallway, running hard for the front door. The monster crashes through the bedroom door behind me and I can hear the wood of the frame splintering. I can’t make it to the door in time. It will be on me in a second. Then, it feels like time slows and just before those ravenous fangs sink into my flesh one more time, I flick on the light switch.

I wake up in bed to my cell phone buzzing angrily. It is my co-worker Larry.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” Larry asks. “Are you coming to work today?”

“What time is it? How long have I been gone?” I ask. I must sound like a wild man because Larry suddenly sounds disconcerted.

“Settle down. You’re only fifteen minutes late. Are you sick?”

“No, I’ll be there,” I say. I hang up. Daylight is streaming into the room through the slits in the blinds. I look at the closet.

The door is open, just a crack.

There is no sound, but of course, there never is before it charges. But now it’s day. There has never been a cell phone call before. The nightmare must be over.

But I can’t explain why my heart is pounding so hard or why I can’t make myself step onto the carpet. Because as long as I stay on the bed, there is a chance that everything is fine and my closet is empty.

I find myself straining to hear breathing.

I don’t want to die again.

I don’t want to die—

7 Comments | tags: bedroom, closet, creepy, cyclical story, death, fiction, horror, monster | posted in Dark

March 23, 2015

Green-Walled Tower News: March Edition

By David Stewart

I’m restructuring things a little here at the Green-Walled Tower. Not much, but a little. I’m cleaning out the attic and moving things around so they fit better. For one thing, I’m going to go back to concentrating on original fiction. I have tried various other projects here to mix things up but they never did as well as my fiction and I didn’t enjoy them quite as much. Also, I will be concentrating mostly on light, humorous stories. I do anyway, of course, and I will still be writing a variety of stories, including dark ones on occasion.

However, for those who don’t want to read scary, dark, or horror stories, I will put up a rating at the beginning to let you know, using my little mascot Belfry.

I won’t put up ratings for others just yet, except one, which is satire. I realize that I can write a pretty convincing satire at times, so if you read something of mine that seems a little too weird to be true (I will always say at the beginning of the post if it’s true, as well), check the end for the rating. It will always be at the end: I don’t want to spoil the show.

As well, I will be coming out with a way to buy some pretty cool Green-Walled Tower merchandise. The official announcement will probably be next week, with a contest to win some neat stuff. Stay tuned.