Endy and the Office

Endy was a baby enderman. In that way, he was an enderboy, if such a thing existed. Endy didn’t know; he couldn’t even remember his parents, except that they were tall, shimmery, and had purple eyes. Just like him, minus the tall part. But Endy had teleported away from them one night and couldn’t find his way back. By morning, he had sought refuge in an office building and had gotten stuck in an office.

All Endermen can teleport, but for some reason Endy couldn’t teleport through things. He didn’t know if it was because he was young or if there was something wrong with him. This particular office had had the door open but usually it was shut and Endy was trapped. When the professor who worked there was in, the door was always shut and Endy did not dare move while it was open, in case he was spotted.

When he was alone, though, he could do what he wanted. He quickly made friends with the computer mouse.

Endy and the Office

“Let’s go for a ride!” Endy said. He teleported to Mouse’s back

“Okay, here we go!” Mouse said and reared up like a horse and slid over the mouse pad as far as its cord would allow.

“Go further! More! More!” Endy had said the first time. Mouse stopped and his scroll wheel blushed deep red.

“I can’t,” he said. “I’m not wireless. If I were, I could anywhere, but I’m stuck here. My dream is to leave and scroll across the world, double-clicking on everything I see.” Mouse was a little weird, but he was a good friend.

Endy tried to make friends with the keyboard too, but that was harder. The keyboard could not talk like Mouse but it could push its keys down and spell things out. Endy couldn’t spell well, but with the help of an elderly electronic dictionary that lived in the top drawer, he soon learned all the keys.

“Hey, this one says End!” he exclaimed. “That’s almost like my name.”

“What does the one above it say?” the dictionary asked.

“It says Home,” Endy said. “Does it work? When I push it, can I go home?”

“Only if you live at the beginning of a line,” the dictionary said, which did not make any sense to Endy.

Endy and the Office

The keyboard was a little gruff and would sometimes put down its Shift key and burst out with a series of *%$#@ expletives if Endy got too rowdy, but it was usually protective. Endy would play around the keys, especially near the End and Home keys, which he liked the best.

At night, Endy slept on top of one of the speakers. It played soft music for him to fall asleep or occasionally, if Endy was feeling homesick, parody songs about his people that it found on Youtube.

Endy and the Office

One day, the professor got up to go to class. He was late and in a hurry. Endy looked up and saw that the door was still partially open.

“The door’s open,” Endy told Mouse. “What should we do?”

There was a furious clacking from the keyboard. It was repeating pushing down it’s uppermost left key.

“What’s it saying?” Mouse asked.

“It’s saying ‘Escape,’” Endy said.

“Go on,” Mouse said. “You deserve it. Go find your family.”

“No, we’ll do it together,” Endy said. He jumped on Mouse’s back. “Come on, try! Try to break free.” Mouse strained and pulled and then there was a pop and his cord popped out the USB slot. They were free.

“Good bye, Keyboard! Good bye, Speakers,” Endy said. “If I can, I’ll come back and say hello again. Good luck.”

Ctrl-C, the keyboard typed. With that, Endy and Mouse rode out the door.


The Charons

This is a true story, although it’s not mine. It is a story of betrayal, malice, and harassment. It’s a story of family poison and co-worker acid.

It is the story of the experiences of blogger and author Sharmishtha Basu, who has just released this book entitled the Charons. I asked her a few questions about the book and how she works as a writer.

David: Is this a true story?

Sharmishtha: It is more of a journal than a story. Everything that is written has happened, but in a lot more horrible way. I just don’t have the mental strength to bare my soul to everyone.

D: When did you first decide to write this story?

S: In 2001, after returning from hell. I decided I would share my experience to warn others in crystal clear words. In the next ten years my tormentors made that decision a resolution.

D: What was the hardest part about writing this book?

S: The pain. Reliving the memories of those ghoulish tortures and betrayals, memories of monstrosity that dwells inside human beings, it was such a shock for me, someone who believed in humanity so very much.

D: Do you have a set place and time when you write?

S: No. I sometimes discipline my muse but she breaks free.

D: Do you have any insights or words of inspirations for other writers?

S: If you believe you want to share your works, don’t let anyone stop you. Createspace and kindle are absolutely free sites, all you will need is friends who will give you the well needed publicity or you can go for paid services. If a publisher refuses your work, that does not makes it bad. Listen to your heart and friends.

The Charons is on sale now at Amazon.com or Createspace.


Death Maker – Friday Fictioneers

copyright Marie Gail Stratford

copyright Marie Gail Stratford

 

I

make death:

long, beautiful

annihilation.

We all do here

at  the forge,

but  Harold,

who’s a klutz,

makes  axes:

tree   death,

and William

shapes animal

slaughter for

the butchers.

I am the best.

I make human

death. I sweat

at  the  steely

altar of Hades,

heated crimson

like future blood.

My masterpiece was for the king. It took a year to make. The hilt was set with a

fountain of diamonds, like the seeds of mourning lilies.

It won me a

citation. I

cannot read it,

but I know what

it  says.  The

best  death

maker  in

the realm.

 


Do You Want a Guest?

Have you ever had a dinosaur bite your leg off? I haven’t, but I can tell you what it was like. Even show you the scar.

Do you know a good recipe for kryptonite soup? Not me, but I can write a recipe that will keep Superman looking at you askance whenever you pick up your spoon.

I’m not saying I’m a professional liar, but I am a writer, so yeah, maybe I am. You know what I mean.

What kind of stories do you tell? Would you like me to tell a story for you? Look back in my archives: I’ve got all kinds to share.

If you’re a blogger and would like to take a night off sometime, I’d love to guest blog for you. Send me an email at greenwalledtower(at)gmail(dot)com and we can talk about it. I won’t bring the whole Green-Walled Tower with me, but maybe I’ll give you a strand of ivy from the walls.

 

GWT logo - cropped


5 Mind-blowing Facts about English that Historians Don’t Want You to Know

Please share this post. People deserve to know.

It’s easy to take our language for granted and not think about where it came from or what it looked like only a short time ago. However, the English language has had a twisted and bizarre past, and historians have tried to cover up some of the most startling facts. Here are five facts about the English language that they don’t want you to know, which will literally blow your mind.

5. Shakespeare created the future tense.

This is hard to imagine but before William Shakespeare, there was no future tense. Time in that period of history was divided in two: past and present. This was the case not only for English but every other language up until that point.

The main reason for this was that in ages past, life was very hard. Hopes for the future were slim or non-existent and people did not dwell on it. A popular proverb in Old Germanic translates as, “Let it be so: we shall all die today anyway.” Today, in this case, meant either the present or the future.

We still have a vestige of this in today’s grammar, in the expression “to be going to” as in “I am going to eat a bucket of gerbil heads.” Even though we know this means the future, it is still technically the present.

Shakespeare, however, was the first person in history to have both hope and a way to express it: i.e. through his writings. He created the future tense and then, when trying to think of a word to use for it, decided to use his own name. At first, people were confused at this new word will, but Shakespeare cleverly always used it with a future time phrase and soon people accepted the new word and the idea of the future. Eventually, many other languages noticed this and formed their own future tenses.

4. Spaces Between Words Were Created During WWI.

This one may surprise you, but take a look at any book written before 1914 and chances are, there will be no spaces between the words (later editions of these books have since put in the spaces for the benefit of the modern reader). The reason for this was that paper was extremely expensive and so publishers would push all the words together to save space. Authors were allowed to have one blank line between chapters, although they were charged 1 cent per line by the publisher (this is where the term “publisher’s penny” comes from, when referring to line breaks.)

Actually, spaces between words used to be a hot issue, with many authors in the 19th century fighting for their use. Other authors, however, were against them. Jane Austen once famously said, “I want my words huddled together so as not to catch cold, when read upon a cold winter’s night.” To give you an idea of what this looked like, here are the first few sentences of Pride and Prejudice, as they would have looked when first published:

jane austen no spaces

Jules Verne, another supporter of no spaces, declared that reading novels with no spaces “caused the reader to strive mightily and through great toil, to attain the true meaning of the text.”

Kind of like this, but with words (copyright Universal Pictures)

Kind of like this, but with words (copyright Universal Pictures)

World War One, however, changed all that. Suddenly, troops at the front were having to read dispatches quickly and accurately. They began to put spaces between words to make them easier to read in the trenches. After the war, authors who had been soldiers adopted this practice and within a few years, it had become standard, to the point that now it seems inconceivable to have text with no spaces in it.

3. The Semicolon was Created in a Bar Bet

semicolon cat

[*]

In 1871, two writers, Lewis Carroll and Benjamin Disraeli, were drinking together in a tavern in Oxford. Carroll argued that there were no more innovations to be made in literature and that the art form was more or less dead. Disraeli declared that he could create an entirely new punctuation mark and have it accepted within 5 years. They wagered a Nebuchadnezzar of fine Bordeaux wine on the attempt. Disraeli drew a period and a comma on a napkin and although he meant to draw them side by side, his hand was shaking and he accidentally drew the period above the comma. He liked the effect and this is how it has remained.

Its usage was somewhat in debate at first. Disraeli first declared that it was designated for “full stops that have not yet a full-committal” or as Punctuation Daily editor Mark Groobinsky put it, “when you think you want to stop, but you’re not sure.” It would take fifty years or more before the modern usage of the semicolon came into standard practice.

Over the next few years, Disraeli included this new mark in all his writings and even gave talks on it. Initially, he called it the ‘perio-comma’ but it was later renamed ‘semicolon’ since it “partially resembles that particular body part.

The semicolon was slow in catching on and Disraeli eventually lost his bet. However, by the turn of the twentieth century, the semicolon was an accepted punctuation mark.

2. The US Almost Adopted its Own Alphabet

Although the US has never had an official language, back in 1795, it almost had its own alphabet. Right after the Revolutionary War, there was a great deal of anti-British sentiment in the United States. It was generally agreed that changing the language would be too hard, but some senators proposed changing the alphabet to make it purely American.

It was known as the Stockton-Bloodworth Plan, named after the two senators who proposed it. The idea was to replace the standard letters with American symbols that started with those letters. Thus, “T” was replaced by a sketch of a turkey and “G” was replaced by an upright gun. Today, there are only a few examples of this type of writing in existence, all of which are stored in the Library of Congress archives.

The current American alphabet [*]

The current American alphabet [*]

Critics of the plan pointed out that many of the symbols were not uniquely American (the letter “H” was a horse); some were very hard to draw (the letter “F” was an American flag, complete with all fifteen stars and fifteen stripes); and others simply did not make sense (the letter “X” was represented by a picture of a man kicking a puppy.) Ultimately, the proposal was defeated in Congress with a vote of 18-14.

1. For a Period of 300 Years, All English Words Were Palindromes

Henry II was crowned king of England in 1133 AD. He always had trouble reading and in 1135, his court doctor declared that he “had a right-moving globe of Apollo”, as opposed to most people, whose globe of Apollo apparently moved left. This meant, according to the doctor, that the king could best read words from right to left. To facilitate both types of reading, the king declared that all words be made into palindromes, so that they could be read from either direction. The court scholars worked for two years to perfect this system (some of these words, such as “level” and “refer” still persist in English today).

The king trumpeted the achievement as a great step forward for both right- and left-moving globes of Apollo, despite the fact that he was the only person to have ever been found in the former category (historians now believe this was actually a form of dyslexia.)

Here is a sample of this type of text from the Old English version of Orosius’ The Amazons, converted to palindromes:

Old English Palindromes

Spaces added later for modern readability

This type of writing became established and persisted long after Henry II’s reign. It was finally abolished in 1443 by Henry VI when a major ink shortage caused the king to look for ways of shortening the language. Still, whenever you talk to an “Anna” or do anything “civic”, think of Henry II and his right-moving globe of Apollo.

 

 

The preceding article has been rated “S” for satire.


Ablutophobic

copyright Al Forbes

copyright Al Forbes

Ablutophobic

“NOOOO!” my son screamed. He Houdini’ed out of my grasp, snaked between my legs and sought refuge under the table.

“Nathan,” my tone was firm but warning. “This is going to happen. Now hold still.”

He was like a cornered tiger, so I took it slow, making hushing noises as I moved in. Just when I thought I had him, he slipped under the far side and hopped out the kitchen window.

My walkie-talkie crackled. “Status?”

“He pulled a runner,” I said. “Target’s in the backyard, heading towards the woods.”

“Copy. I’m ready to go mobile.”

I ran to the roof, where my wife was in the cockpit of a small helicopter.

“He can’t have gotten far,” she said. As soon as I was in, she took off, heading towards the grassy space behind the house.

“Do you have the stuff?” I asked.

She pointed between the seats. “Right here.”

We spotted Nathan running hard. My wife maneuvered the chopper above him. “Now!” she shouted.

I grabbed the bucket and dumped the warm, soapy contents out the door. It hit Nathan square on the head, running down his hair like a judge’s wig.

“Does that count as a bath?” she asked.

“It’s as good as we’re getting.” Nathan was looking up furiously. I threw him a towel.

“How long will this have to go on?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Well, his high school graduation is this afternoon. I think he’s on his own after that.”


Note: although I used this title for comedic effect, I don’t wish to make light of the actual phobia, which can be a serious thing for those who suffer with it.


Paper Dolls – Friday Fictioneers

I am super late this week in posting my story for Friday Fictioneers. There are several reasons for this, including being very busy at work, but one main one is that I am finding Friday Fictioneers stories harder and harder to write. It’s not that I can’t think of a story: I could probably sit down and write a hundred stories in a row for any given picture. It’s just that as time goes on, my standards for myself for originality and quality keep increasing and after 113 100-word stories, I feel like everything has been done. That’s one reason why I play around ways of presenting stories: I feel like I’m stagnating or at least I don’t want to. Sometimes a story that I like comes right to me, but usually it doesn’t and these days, I often agonize about it for days. If you do Friday Fictioneers stories, do you ever feel this way? Is it just me?

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Paper Dolls

Snip, snip. A line of identical dolls appeared.

Elise picked up one of the crayons from her father.

“Make them colorful,” he’d said. “Bring them to life.”

She left the first one blank; drew a happy face on the second. The third had clothes and hair.

The tenth took all week. Finally, the light glowed off her perfectly shaded face. Her name was Galatea; Elise had ten pages of history for her. She was Greek. And liked chocolate and rainbows.

Elise put down the pencil and Galatea’s arm floated up as if waving, blown by an imaginary breeze.

Elise smiled.


New York Mayor Grants Health Insurance for Cats

Do cats work hard? They sure don’t act like it. After all, they’re rated the 9th laziest animal by pawnation.com, who should know a thing or two about all things pawed.Notes newspaper

Of course, we know that cats do work hard, just in their own way. They kill enough mice and rats to keep us from swimming in vermin and that’s no small thing. I don’t think the title of this post will be seen in the New York Times anytime soon, but that’s not saying it shouldn’t be. Maybe they could pay taxes in rat tails or something.

Let me tell you about one cat who worked hard. Her name was Maya. She was more than a cat though: she was a lady. She had a job but had to keep out of sight because of health inspectors. She had an infuriating owner, a high-classed friend named Puccini, and a rakish tomcat brother named Gloves. She was also a writer, who tapped out her memoirs, one paw stroke at a time. These memoirs are collected in a small book called Notes from a Working Cat, by Susannah Bianchi. I recently interviewed her about the book.

David: First of all, let me say I enjoyed this book a lot. Where did you get the inspiration for it?

Susannah: Maya was an actual cat on the Avenue where I live. I first met her sleeping in the window after hours. She was the prettiest kitty amid the apples and oranges.

D: Who is your favorite character in this story and why?

S: Maya, of course, with Puccini as a close second for her glamor . . . pearls instead of a collar. If I come back as a cat, I’d want to be Puccini, the Liz Taylor of Pusses.

D: What was the hardest part about writing this book?

S: Not making a full-fledged book, thinking less would be more.

D: Do you have a set place and time you write?

S: I like writing at first light, when all is quiet and I have the world to myself.

D: Finally, do you have any insights or words of inspiration for other writers?

S: Just forget about fame and fortune. All that will come doing what you love.  8-)

 

Notes from a Working Cat is on sale now at Amazon.com. Go check it out.

Notes from a Working Cat


The Bronze Lady

The Bronze Lady

There was a crunch and the chariot lurched. Another puppy gone. A scream from the owner.

“Watch where you’re going, you maniac!”

“Shut up, shut up!” Boudicca yelled. She maneuvered the chariot further into the dog park. This clearly hadn’t been a good idea.

“Are you insane?”

“I’m trying to give the horses some exercise!” she shouted over her shoulder. There were too many trees here for a good run.

“They’re bronze! Why do they need exercise?” someone yelled.

“Well, I don’t need to kick your arse, but I still might,” she said, pulling back a bronze foot to emphasize her point.

It was no good anyway; the heavy wheels were sinking into the turf. She turned around and retreated.

As she rode back sadly along Bridge Street to her pedestal, cars honking behind her, she sighed. There was no place in this modern world for a bronze woman. It was lonely, being the only one of her kind. If only her friend the Iron Lady were still alive.


Dear Man in 45C

I saw on a flight for my job interview. It seemed like desperate pleading to me. Thus, this story.

I saw on a flight for my job interview last summer. It seemed like desperate pleading to me. Thus, this story.

Dear man in 45C,

Please feel better. Please? I’ve noticed that slightly green look on your face, and the way you heave slightly with every lurch of the plane. I can see that the spew volcano is restless and I’m doing every ritual dance I know to keep it from erupting. I’ll even bring you another ginger ale, if it helps.

I don’t normally beg, but you’ve seen this flight and carting off your full bag of transformed airplane food would be the puke-colored straw on the back of the camel that is this flight.

It’s not just the dead guy either. True, it was a bit jarring to witness a guy have a heart attack and die screaming just after I’d served him his peanuts. That was a new one, I’ll admit. One for the ol’ memoir. But for the moment, it’s not helping my day, especially when I see other passengers looking askance at their own peanuts, as if I knock off people as a hobby, or something. And it didn’t make it any better that since I’m the only male flight attendant and the dead guy had had more than his share of triple fudge sundaes, I was the one who had to haul him off to cold storage for the rest of the flight.

Also, this job is stressful enough without the two teenagers throwing a Nerf football back and forth and running plays in the aisles (and calling me a “stewardess”, no less). And let’s not forget about the two racist women in first class, talking loudly about how the Jews and the blacks are taking over the world. That would be annoying enough for anyone, even if I weren’t a black Jew.

So that’s why I’m asking you—begging you—please don’t drop a puke cherry on top of this septic sundae.

Oh look, there you go. Goody.

And you missed the bag too. Wonderful.

Two hours into a twelve-hour flight. Hooray.

“Excuse me, sir. It looks like you are in some discomfort. It would be my pleasure to clean this up for you.”


The Elephant's Trunk

🐘 Nancy is a storyteller, music blogger, humorist, poet, curveballer, noir dreamer 🐘

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