Here, enjoy another
This ones called Yellow Paint Robert Louis Stevenson
In a certain city there lived a physician who sold yellow paint. This was of so singular a virtue that whoso was bedaubed with it from head to heel was set free from the dangers of life, and the bondage of sin, and the fear of death for ever. So the physician said in his prospectus; and so said all the citizens in the city; and there was nothing more urgent in men's hearts than to be properly painted themselves, and nothing they took more delight in than to see others painted. There was in the same city a young man of a very good family but of a somewhat reckless life, who had reached the age of manhood, and would have nothing to say to the paint: "Tomorrow was soon enough," said he; and when the morrow came he would still put it off. She might have continued to do until his death; only, he had a friend of about his own age and much of his own manners; and this youth, taking a walk in the public street, with not one fleck of paint upon his body, was suddenly run down by a water-cart and cut off in the heyday of his nakedness. This shook the other to the soul; so that I never beheld a man more earnest to be painted; and on the very same evening, in the presence of all his family, to appropriate music, and himself weeping aloud, he received three complete coats and a touch of varnish on the top. The physician (who was himself affected even to tears) protested he had never done a job so thorough. Some two months afterwards, the young man was carried on a stretcher to the physician's house. "What is the meaning of this?" he cried, as soon as the door was opened. "I was to be set free from all the dangers of life; and here have I been run down by that self-same water-cart, and my leg is broken." "Dear me!" said the physician. "This is very sad. But I perceive I must explain to you the action of my paint. A broken bone is a mighty small affair at the worst of it; and it belongs to a class of accident to which my paint is quite inapplicable. Sin, my dear young friend, sin is the sole calamity that a wise man should apprehend; it is against sin that I have fitted you out; and when you come to be tempted, you will give me news of my paint."
< 2 >
"Oh!" said the young man, "I did not understand that, and it seems rather disappointing. But I have no doubt all is for the best; and in the meanwhile, I shall be obliged to you if you will set my leg." "That is none of my business," said the physician; "but if your bearers will carry you round the corner to the surgeon's, I feel sure he will afford relief." Some three years later, the young man came running to the physician's house in a great perturbation. "What is the meaning of this?" he cried. "Here was I to be set free from the bondage of sin; and I have just committed forgery, arson and murder." "Dear me," said the physician. "This is very serious. Off with your clothes at once." And as soon as the young man had stripped, he examined him from head to foot. "No," he cried with great relief, "there is not a flake broken. Cheer up, my young friend, your paint is as good as new." "Good God!" cried the young man, "and what then can be the use of it?" "Why," said the physician, "I perceive I must explain to you the nature of the action of my paint. It does not exactly prevent sin; it extenuates instead the painful consequences. It is not so much for this world, as for the next; it is not against life; in short, it is against death that I have fitted you out. And when you come to die, you will give me news of my paint." "Oh!" cried the young man, "I had not understood that, and it seems a little disappointing. But there is no doubt all is for the best: and in the meanwhile, I shall be obliged if you will help me to undo the evil I have brought on innocent persons." "That is none of my business," said the physician; "but if you will go round the corner to the police office, I feel sure it will afford you relief to give yourself up." Six weeks later, the physician was called to the town gaol. "What is the meaning of this?" cried the young man. "Here am I literally crusted with your paint; and I have broken my leg, and committed all the crimes in the calendar, and must be hanged tomorrow; and am in the meanwhile in a fear so extreme that I lack words to picture it." "Dear me," said the physician. "This is really amazing. Well, well; perhaps, if you had not been painted, you would have been more frightened still."
Also, Happy Halloween =D
Friday, October 31, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Story 3-Comedy
Heres yet another story, haha
Its called Baggio's Story by Charlie Fish
Iwould like to be a philosopher.Well, anyone who has said the word 'Why' can argue that he is a philosopher, so I want to be more than that. I want to be remembered as a philosopher. One day soon I will be dead. People will look back at my life, and they might say I was a martial artist; for I have earned a seventh dan black belt (in both karate and judo). They might say I was a musician; for I have composed successful operas (in three different languages). They might say I was a footballer; for I used to represent Italy (and scored twenty-seven goals for my country during my career). But above all, they will say, he was a great philosopher. The difference between a hobby and greatness is total immersion, to the sacrifice of all else. I must devote my entire life to this pursuit; I must give up absolutely everything for this cause. I assumed that giving up my material wealth would be the easiest part of this quest, but it is proving not to be straightforward. Yesterday, I hired a removal van and packed it with all of my possessions, leaving my house utterly bare. I drove out to the public common and unpacked the van there, laying every item out upon the grass. I labelled my bank cards with the relevant pin numbers. I labelled my bicycle lock with its code. I labelled my house keys with their address, and my car keys with instructions to find the car. I abandoned the rented van, for liabilities are also proprietary. Finally, I stripped the clothes off my back and folded them into a neat pile. And I walked away. It was late by then, and cold. I decided to forestall the next part of my mission until the morning. So I wandered the streets, looking for a warm place to sleep for a few hours. No haven was forthcoming. The few warm corners I did find were barred to me by people that I suppose took issue with my nakedness. I ended up walking aimlessly all night, to keep from freezing. As the sun rose and the pre-dawn chill passed, I found myself approaching the common again - my subconscious mind had guided me in a large circle back to where I started. The soft, dewy grass soothed my aching feet.
2
I walked up to the pile of my belongings. There were a few people staring at it as they passed, mostly early morning joggers and peripatetic tramps. To my surprise, not a single item was missing. Ashamed as I am to admit it, my first reaction was to feel hurt that nobody had valued my possessions enough to claim them; but of course I did not indulge my misplaced pride. I waved down a passing cyclist and asked him why he had not stopped to take something. 'This stuff is yours?' he asked. 'Not anymore,' I replied, 'I wish to give it all away. Would you like to take something? Perhaps this stylish Armani duffle coat? It is a cold morning, after all.' He looked at me, and then glanced all around him as if looking for a candid camera. 'No thanks,' he frowned, and cycled away. I noticed a vagrant inspecting the pile of goods, and I approached him. 'Would you like some help carrying a few items away?' I asked. 'Jumble sale, is it?' he mumbled, his eyes still casting over the assortment of household wares. 'If you like,' I remarked, 'except that every item is free of charge.' 'Just looking,' he grunted. I mentally shrugged my shoulders and prepared to walk away, but an irresistible impulse to see the job through to completion compelled me to do one more thing. I walked over to my writing desk, which was on the grass between my mixing deck and my unicycle, and I pulled a bullet-tip pen out of the top drawer. I carried over a large imitation Caravaggio I had knocked off during primary school (perfect in every detail, of course), and propped it against the desk so that the back of the frame was facing outwards. I wrote across the wood in bold lettering: EVERYTHING FREE. HELP YOURSELF. 'Excuse me, sir,' came a voice from behind me. I capped the pen and turned around. It was a policeman. 'Is that your van, sir?' 'No,' I said, looking over to where the rented van was parked. He sensed he would have to be more specific. 'Did you rent that van, sir?' 'Yes.' 'It's illegally parked, sir, you'll have to move it at once.' The policeman surveyed the pile of personal property laid out on the ground in front of us and his brow creased. 'Are these things yours, sir?'
4
'No.' 'They are your things, sir. Look, this golf bag has your name on it. You're that footballer, played for Italy didn't you?' .'I am a philosopher,' I retorted. 'I'm afraid you can't leave these things here, sir.' 'They're not my things anymore. I've given them away.' 'Regardless, sir, you can't leave 'em here.' 'I will leave them here. You'll have to arrest me.' 'I'm not going to arrest you, sir, although I will insist that you put some clothes on and pack these things back into your van.' With frustration, I intercepted an attractive young mother that was pushing two children in a pram. 'Excuse me, madam,' I smiled. 'Can I interest you in a proposition?' The woman stopped and eyed me with suspicion. I continued: 'I would like to give you everything I own, and in return all I ask is that you take responsibility for it. You see, this policeman here insists that I must move it all away, but I don't want anything to do with it.' 'Don't be silly,' admonished the woman. 'But these commodities are worth hundreds of thousands of pounds!' I appealed. The woman cocked her head and scratched her chin. She surveyed the paraphernalia on offer, and her brow furrowed as if conducting a challenging mental calculation. At last, after a full minute, she spoke: 'I'll give you ten grand for the lot.' I sighed. I might even have rolled my eyes. 'You can have it for free,' I clarified. 'All of it.' 'Well, if you're gonna play hardball, no deal,' she huffed, and stomped away. I turned back to the policeman with an exasperated look. He glared at me as if he were a teacher expecting an apology from a naughty pupil. 'Well,' I said, 'if you're not going to arrest me...' And I walked away. My attention turned fully to the task at hand. The path to greatness is total sacrifice. To be a philosopher, all I need is my mind and a pen. Everything else must go. I intend to make the ultimate living sacrifice: I will give away my free will. With no distractions, I will achieve a purity of mind more complete than anyone has achieved before me. And the consequences of my sacrifice will be the subject of my study.
4
Then I will be, above all, a philosopher. It has now been three days since I gave away my free will and my experiment is not going well. Before I decided to relinquish my freedom, part of me was concerned about the degradation and humiliation to which I would be exposing myself; for if I was commanded to do housework in a bikini for the rest of my waking life, I would do it. That is a natural risk of devolving my decision-making. And another part of me hoped with eternal optimism that, unfettered by laziness or lack of self-belief, I would be able to reach my full potential; for if I was commanded to colonise the moon I would devote every fibre of my being to that purpose until it was achieved. That is the divine potential of foregoing free will. These extremes of possibility excited me. And I felt certain that whatever happened, I would be inspired by the insights into the human psyche that this noble pursuit would provide. However, I find myself neither in heaven nor hell, but a cramped and lifeless purgatory. I gave away my free will at random so my ego would not contaminate the decision. I asked each passer-by if he or she would accept responsibility for my decisions until one of them said yes. After many rejections, a tall, dark-haired, smiling man stopped to consider my proposal. To protect his identity, I will call him Leo. 'So I'd make all your decisions,' Leo affirmed. 'I could make you do whatever I wanted? Even -' 'Yes, even that,' I interrupted. 'The lone exception is that I reserve the right to make one recurring decision: While you're asleep I may choose to muse and write, for I wish to be remembered as a philosopher.' 'What do you expect for me to decide to do with your life?' he asked. 'What if I mess it up, or waste it?' 'You can do whatever you want; it's not my place to say. Even if you feel like you're wasting my life you'll be doing me a great service, for by taking away my responsibility for making decisions, you're freeing my mind to think clearer and deeper than ever before.'
5
'For how long?' he queried. 'If you accept, that is not for me to decide,' I responded. He asked a number of practical questions such as where I would live and how I would eat, and each time I replied with a similar answer. It would all be up to him. 'It's quite a responsibility,' he said at last. He surveyed me with considerable curiosity. 'It is likely to be a significant commitment of time and effort,' I admitted. 'But I have no expectations, so you have no responsibility to me in that sense. If you desire payment, you can make me work for you in whatever way you want.' 'Well, if I can make you decide anytime to take back responsibility for your own decisions, then it's zero risk for me... I have just one more question.' 'Yes?' 'If I told you to, would you kill yourself?' 'Without hesitation.' 'I'm in.' He took me back to his home, a claustrophobic one-bedroom flat in a converted Victorian terrace. The place was tidy enough, but structurally questionable. The fading patterned wallpaper had the occasional inexplicable dent or damp patch in it. He briefly showed me around and then gave me some instructions. 'Right,' he asserted. 'If you're hungry, you're to eat bread. If you're thirsty, you're to drink water. If you need the toilet, go. If you're tired, sleep. If there's danger, you must get away from it. Those basic rules last forever, and take priority over any other decisions I make for you, unless I specifically override them. Do you understand?' 'Yes,' I nodded. Inwardly, I felt pleased that he seemed to have grasped his new role quickly and with intelligence. 'Excellent,' Leo smiled. 'I'm late for work now. Stay in here and watch TV till I get back.' 'What channel?' I asked. 'Channel one,' he ordered, and turned to leave, bolting the door behind him. For nine hours I obeyed, absorbing inane daywatch with all its empty rhetoric. I felt a frisson of excitement when I heard him come back in - now the game would really begin. But I was to be sadly disappointed. His opening words were: 'I thought you might've tried to steal everything.' I shook my head in response. 'You're serious about this, then?' he asked, without needing an answer.
< 6 >
Then he set about his daily rituals, barely acknowledging me at all. I had not been given any other decision beyond watching television, so I continued to watch as he showered, ironed his shirts, prepared supper, called his mother... He gave me a portion of food and told me to eat it, and three hours later he went to bed. That was it. No scintillating conversational exchanges. No deep analysis of the potential of my sacrifice. No bizarre or daring decisions. No imagination whatsoever. Time passed until I felt I could safely assume he was asleep, but I was too discouraged, too brainwashed by hours of dullness, to take up a pen and begin my philosophical musings. So I tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep. The next day, yesterday, I hoped for better things. But the same tedious scene was played out; and again today. I have subjugated myself to a dolt. I am this man's puppet, yet he plays me with no imagination, no art. Without imagination, a puppet is an empty thing; but with imagination, all the world's a stage. If only he used me with a bit more creativity; then we could achieve powerful things. Even if he abused me I'd prefer it, if he showed a little flair. But it is clear that this man will not catalyse my mission. He is incapable. Now I must focus on training my mind to think more deeply, so that it doesn't matter what my body is doing. I must start writing my philosophical masterpiece. He is asleep now, and the pen is in my hand. Six months have passed, and my life has changed forever. All concern I ever had for the direction and meaning of my life has faded away. My past achievements mean nothing to me anymore. Even my philosophical opus, although I still think about it sometimes, has fallen by the wayside. And I'm happier than I've ever been. My master, Leo, is wiser and more cunning than I suspected. Those first few days of dullness were merely his way of helping me to appreciate the consequences of being a creature without free will. I laugh at myself now for having been so arrogant. On the eighth day - it feels so long ago now - I confronted him. He had just returned from work and started his usual routine (I was watching television of course), when I blurted out: 'I'm bored!'
< 7 >
'Then decide to be happy,' he ordered. 'But how can I? You've been given an opportunity that is unique in the history of humankind and you're too much of an imbecile to do anything with it.' He raised his eyebrows, and let a silence hang in the air for a moment. 'Did you just decide to say that? To insult me? Did you decide off your own back?' 'No,' I objected, 'I've been bursting to say it for days and I was no longer able to hold back.' 'Fine. Keep watching television.' 'But what will that achieve?' 'You tell me,' he countered. 'You're the one who gave up your free will.' 'Yes, but -' 'But what?' he interrupted, splaying his arms in the air. This was the most animated I'd seen him. 'You told me it didn't matter if I wasted your life. You told me I had no responsibility to achieve anything with you. So, tell me, why are you doing this?' 'I gave away my need to make decisions so I could focus more of my mind on deeper thoughts,' I explained. 'You're so full of yourself! Can't you see how ridiculous that is?' 'I'm a greater person than you'll ever be!' I yelled. 'Really? What makes you so great?' he shouted back. 'I have the achievements of several lifetimes behind me, and you still live in a crappy flat and call your mother every day!' 'Well, now I control you, so you're only as great as me. If you don't like that, then leave! Every day I come back from work and I expect you not to be here, because you've given up; because you've decided to make your own decisions again and get out of here. Why are you still here?' He had started pacing around in front of me as he said this, like a buzzing mosquito. I felt disproportionately annoyed at him, and I was determined to swat him away. 'If you want me to leave, tell me to leave. Tell me to choose another master.' 'Why should I? It makes no odds to me.' 'Well then, leave me alone, so I can get on with my thinking. Your shallow little brain is sapping my thoughts away.'
< 8 >
'You're full of crap. Show me one deep thought you've written since you've been here.' 'I've not yet committed anything to paper.' 'Then tell me one deep thought you've come up with since being here.' 'No!' I whined. 'Ha! A-ha! That's not your decision to make,' he asserted, with some degree of glee. 'I'm deciding that you will tell me all of your deepest thoughts.' 'I -' I started, but then I realised that I had to comply. I had no free will, and I had been given a direct order, so I had to comply. I opened my mouth, ready to dispense some overblown piece of wisdom that would quieten him at last, but with a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach, I realised that I could not think of anything at all. The sinking feeling grew into a mental panic. That was the turning point: I realised that I had not had a single deep thought since the day I gave away everything I owned at the public common. I had not written a word of philosophy since this experiment began. And it was my own fault, not Leo's. That single revelation, the possibility that I was failing because I was inadequate, terrified me to the core. I stayed quiet. 'There you go,' Leo said calmly. 'Now watch television and think about what you've done. Think about what you want. I'm going to bed.' As he left he added: 'If you're not here in the morning, goodbye.' But I stayed. I was too shaken to move on. I didn't even have anywhere to go - and now I could see that I might have given it all away for nothing. Had I ever had a deep thought in my life? The more I thought about it the more it scared me. I was all success and no soul. I watched television all night that night, numbing my brain to the emptiness of my situation. Leo did not say a word to me in the morning as he got up and left for work. I cried. I wasn't even sure what for. I had to think. Leo had ordered me to think about what I wanted. Without really being conscious that I was making a decision to do so, I left the flat and went for a walk.
< 9 >
I inhaled the crisp sunshine air as I approached the public common. I cast my eyes over the scattered people jogging, walking, chatting, sitting; and I asked myself, 'Why?' Why was I here? Why had I done all the things I had done? Why was I unhappy? I was back in the flat when Leo returned from work. The television was off. 'How are you feeling?' asked Leo. 'Lost,' I admitted. 'I would like to stay, if I may.' 'Sure,' he nodded sympathetically. He studied me for a while, and I think the corners of his mouth raised into a half-smile, but only for a second. 'I'm going out for a couple of beers with some friends of mine. Do you want to come?' 'If you say so,' I whimpered. 'Come.' I got to know his friends in the weeks after that, and I began to rediscover myself. I had never had that kind of companionship before - it made me see things in a different way. These new friends did not judge me for what I had done badly, or for what I had not yet achieved. The people I used to call friends were only friends while I was successful, but these new friends had no expectations from me, and they included me in their lives without conditions. These friends became a sounding board for my thoughts and worries, an earthly touchstone for my life rather than having to measure myself against the entire cosmos. I came to value them above all else. I took a gardening job and started paying Leo some rent. Of course, I had to start making some of my own decisions again, but only small ones. The big decisions, about where my life was going, or how I could inject meaning into it, did not trouble me anymore. Leo became less of a master and more of a mentor for me. I grew to view him very fondly. And what surprised me most was the realisation of how lonely I had been before. My friends, and Leo - my best friend - have helped me to appreciate the small things in life. The most important things. Now that the burden of aimless ambition has faded away, I can work with them to build a quieter purpose in our lives.
< 10 > One day soon I will be dead. People will look back at my life, and they might say I was a martial artist; they might say I was a musician; they might say I was a footballer. They might even say I was a philosopher, for now that my personality has become less broad and more deep, my thoughts have become deeper too. Recently I have felt the edges of philosophical inspiration tickling my mind, and it won't be long before it becomes clear enough to commit to paper. But I think I would prefer it if they said, above all, he was my friend.
Its called Baggio's Story by Charlie Fish
Iwould like to be a philosopher.Well, anyone who has said the word 'Why' can argue that he is a philosopher, so I want to be more than that. I want to be remembered as a philosopher. One day soon I will be dead. People will look back at my life, and they might say I was a martial artist; for I have earned a seventh dan black belt (in both karate and judo). They might say I was a musician; for I have composed successful operas (in three different languages). They might say I was a footballer; for I used to represent Italy (and scored twenty-seven goals for my country during my career). But above all, they will say, he was a great philosopher. The difference between a hobby and greatness is total immersion, to the sacrifice of all else. I must devote my entire life to this pursuit; I must give up absolutely everything for this cause. I assumed that giving up my material wealth would be the easiest part of this quest, but it is proving not to be straightforward. Yesterday, I hired a removal van and packed it with all of my possessions, leaving my house utterly bare. I drove out to the public common and unpacked the van there, laying every item out upon the grass. I labelled my bank cards with the relevant pin numbers. I labelled my bicycle lock with its code. I labelled my house keys with their address, and my car keys with instructions to find the car. I abandoned the rented van, for liabilities are also proprietary. Finally, I stripped the clothes off my back and folded them into a neat pile. And I walked away. It was late by then, and cold. I decided to forestall the next part of my mission until the morning. So I wandered the streets, looking for a warm place to sleep for a few hours. No haven was forthcoming. The few warm corners I did find were barred to me by people that I suppose took issue with my nakedness. I ended up walking aimlessly all night, to keep from freezing. As the sun rose and the pre-dawn chill passed, I found myself approaching the common again - my subconscious mind had guided me in a large circle back to where I started. The soft, dewy grass soothed my aching feet.
2
I walked up to the pile of my belongings. There were a few people staring at it as they passed, mostly early morning joggers and peripatetic tramps. To my surprise, not a single item was missing. Ashamed as I am to admit it, my first reaction was to feel hurt that nobody had valued my possessions enough to claim them; but of course I did not indulge my misplaced pride. I waved down a passing cyclist and asked him why he had not stopped to take something. 'This stuff is yours?' he asked. 'Not anymore,' I replied, 'I wish to give it all away. Would you like to take something? Perhaps this stylish Armani duffle coat? It is a cold morning, after all.' He looked at me, and then glanced all around him as if looking for a candid camera. 'No thanks,' he frowned, and cycled away. I noticed a vagrant inspecting the pile of goods, and I approached him. 'Would you like some help carrying a few items away?' I asked. 'Jumble sale, is it?' he mumbled, his eyes still casting over the assortment of household wares. 'If you like,' I remarked, 'except that every item is free of charge.' 'Just looking,' he grunted. I mentally shrugged my shoulders and prepared to walk away, but an irresistible impulse to see the job through to completion compelled me to do one more thing. I walked over to my writing desk, which was on the grass between my mixing deck and my unicycle, and I pulled a bullet-tip pen out of the top drawer. I carried over a large imitation Caravaggio I had knocked off during primary school (perfect in every detail, of course), and propped it against the desk so that the back of the frame was facing outwards. I wrote across the wood in bold lettering: EVERYTHING FREE. HELP YOURSELF. 'Excuse me, sir,' came a voice from behind me. I capped the pen and turned around. It was a policeman. 'Is that your van, sir?' 'No,' I said, looking over to where the rented van was parked. He sensed he would have to be more specific. 'Did you rent that van, sir?' 'Yes.' 'It's illegally parked, sir, you'll have to move it at once.' The policeman surveyed the pile of personal property laid out on the ground in front of us and his brow creased. 'Are these things yours, sir?'
4
'No.' 'They are your things, sir. Look, this golf bag has your name on it. You're that footballer, played for Italy didn't you?' .'I am a philosopher,' I retorted. 'I'm afraid you can't leave these things here, sir.' 'They're not my things anymore. I've given them away.' 'Regardless, sir, you can't leave 'em here.' 'I will leave them here. You'll have to arrest me.' 'I'm not going to arrest you, sir, although I will insist that you put some clothes on and pack these things back into your van.' With frustration, I intercepted an attractive young mother that was pushing two children in a pram. 'Excuse me, madam,' I smiled. 'Can I interest you in a proposition?' The woman stopped and eyed me with suspicion. I continued: 'I would like to give you everything I own, and in return all I ask is that you take responsibility for it. You see, this policeman here insists that I must move it all away, but I don't want anything to do with it.' 'Don't be silly,' admonished the woman. 'But these commodities are worth hundreds of thousands of pounds!' I appealed. The woman cocked her head and scratched her chin. She surveyed the paraphernalia on offer, and her brow furrowed as if conducting a challenging mental calculation. At last, after a full minute, she spoke: 'I'll give you ten grand for the lot.' I sighed. I might even have rolled my eyes. 'You can have it for free,' I clarified. 'All of it.' 'Well, if you're gonna play hardball, no deal,' she huffed, and stomped away. I turned back to the policeman with an exasperated look. He glared at me as if he were a teacher expecting an apology from a naughty pupil. 'Well,' I said, 'if you're not going to arrest me...' And I walked away. My attention turned fully to the task at hand. The path to greatness is total sacrifice. To be a philosopher, all I need is my mind and a pen. Everything else must go. I intend to make the ultimate living sacrifice: I will give away my free will. With no distractions, I will achieve a purity of mind more complete than anyone has achieved before me. And the consequences of my sacrifice will be the subject of my study.
4
Then I will be, above all, a philosopher. It has now been three days since I gave away my free will and my experiment is not going well. Before I decided to relinquish my freedom, part of me was concerned about the degradation and humiliation to which I would be exposing myself; for if I was commanded to do housework in a bikini for the rest of my waking life, I would do it. That is a natural risk of devolving my decision-making. And another part of me hoped with eternal optimism that, unfettered by laziness or lack of self-belief, I would be able to reach my full potential; for if I was commanded to colonise the moon I would devote every fibre of my being to that purpose until it was achieved. That is the divine potential of foregoing free will. These extremes of possibility excited me. And I felt certain that whatever happened, I would be inspired by the insights into the human psyche that this noble pursuit would provide. However, I find myself neither in heaven nor hell, but a cramped and lifeless purgatory. I gave away my free will at random so my ego would not contaminate the decision. I asked each passer-by if he or she would accept responsibility for my decisions until one of them said yes. After many rejections, a tall, dark-haired, smiling man stopped to consider my proposal. To protect his identity, I will call him Leo. 'So I'd make all your decisions,' Leo affirmed. 'I could make you do whatever I wanted? Even -' 'Yes, even that,' I interrupted. 'The lone exception is that I reserve the right to make one recurring decision: While you're asleep I may choose to muse and write, for I wish to be remembered as a philosopher.' 'What do you expect for me to decide to do with your life?' he asked. 'What if I mess it up, or waste it?' 'You can do whatever you want; it's not my place to say. Even if you feel like you're wasting my life you'll be doing me a great service, for by taking away my responsibility for making decisions, you're freeing my mind to think clearer and deeper than ever before.'
5
'For how long?' he queried. 'If you accept, that is not for me to decide,' I responded. He asked a number of practical questions such as where I would live and how I would eat, and each time I replied with a similar answer. It would all be up to him. 'It's quite a responsibility,' he said at last. He surveyed me with considerable curiosity. 'It is likely to be a significant commitment of time and effort,' I admitted. 'But I have no expectations, so you have no responsibility to me in that sense. If you desire payment, you can make me work for you in whatever way you want.' 'Well, if I can make you decide anytime to take back responsibility for your own decisions, then it's zero risk for me... I have just one more question.' 'Yes?' 'If I told you to, would you kill yourself?' 'Without hesitation.' 'I'm in.' He took me back to his home, a claustrophobic one-bedroom flat in a converted Victorian terrace. The place was tidy enough, but structurally questionable. The fading patterned wallpaper had the occasional inexplicable dent or damp patch in it. He briefly showed me around and then gave me some instructions. 'Right,' he asserted. 'If you're hungry, you're to eat bread. If you're thirsty, you're to drink water. If you need the toilet, go. If you're tired, sleep. If there's danger, you must get away from it. Those basic rules last forever, and take priority over any other decisions I make for you, unless I specifically override them. Do you understand?' 'Yes,' I nodded. Inwardly, I felt pleased that he seemed to have grasped his new role quickly and with intelligence. 'Excellent,' Leo smiled. 'I'm late for work now. Stay in here and watch TV till I get back.' 'What channel?' I asked. 'Channel one,' he ordered, and turned to leave, bolting the door behind him. For nine hours I obeyed, absorbing inane daywatch with all its empty rhetoric. I felt a frisson of excitement when I heard him come back in - now the game would really begin. But I was to be sadly disappointed. His opening words were: 'I thought you might've tried to steal everything.' I shook my head in response. 'You're serious about this, then?' he asked, without needing an answer.
< 6 >
Then he set about his daily rituals, barely acknowledging me at all. I had not been given any other decision beyond watching television, so I continued to watch as he showered, ironed his shirts, prepared supper, called his mother... He gave me a portion of food and told me to eat it, and three hours later he went to bed. That was it. No scintillating conversational exchanges. No deep analysis of the potential of my sacrifice. No bizarre or daring decisions. No imagination whatsoever. Time passed until I felt I could safely assume he was asleep, but I was too discouraged, too brainwashed by hours of dullness, to take up a pen and begin my philosophical musings. So I tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep. The next day, yesterday, I hoped for better things. But the same tedious scene was played out; and again today. I have subjugated myself to a dolt. I am this man's puppet, yet he plays me with no imagination, no art. Without imagination, a puppet is an empty thing; but with imagination, all the world's a stage. If only he used me with a bit more creativity; then we could achieve powerful things. Even if he abused me I'd prefer it, if he showed a little flair. But it is clear that this man will not catalyse my mission. He is incapable. Now I must focus on training my mind to think more deeply, so that it doesn't matter what my body is doing. I must start writing my philosophical masterpiece. He is asleep now, and the pen is in my hand. Six months have passed, and my life has changed forever. All concern I ever had for the direction and meaning of my life has faded away. My past achievements mean nothing to me anymore. Even my philosophical opus, although I still think about it sometimes, has fallen by the wayside. And I'm happier than I've ever been. My master, Leo, is wiser and more cunning than I suspected. Those first few days of dullness were merely his way of helping me to appreciate the consequences of being a creature without free will. I laugh at myself now for having been so arrogant. On the eighth day - it feels so long ago now - I confronted him. He had just returned from work and started his usual routine (I was watching television of course), when I blurted out: 'I'm bored!'
< 7 >
'Then decide to be happy,' he ordered. 'But how can I? You've been given an opportunity that is unique in the history of humankind and you're too much of an imbecile to do anything with it.' He raised his eyebrows, and let a silence hang in the air for a moment. 'Did you just decide to say that? To insult me? Did you decide off your own back?' 'No,' I objected, 'I've been bursting to say it for days and I was no longer able to hold back.' 'Fine. Keep watching television.' 'But what will that achieve?' 'You tell me,' he countered. 'You're the one who gave up your free will.' 'Yes, but -' 'But what?' he interrupted, splaying his arms in the air. This was the most animated I'd seen him. 'You told me it didn't matter if I wasted your life. You told me I had no responsibility to achieve anything with you. So, tell me, why are you doing this?' 'I gave away my need to make decisions so I could focus more of my mind on deeper thoughts,' I explained. 'You're so full of yourself! Can't you see how ridiculous that is?' 'I'm a greater person than you'll ever be!' I yelled. 'Really? What makes you so great?' he shouted back. 'I have the achievements of several lifetimes behind me, and you still live in a crappy flat and call your mother every day!' 'Well, now I control you, so you're only as great as me. If you don't like that, then leave! Every day I come back from work and I expect you not to be here, because you've given up; because you've decided to make your own decisions again and get out of here. Why are you still here?' He had started pacing around in front of me as he said this, like a buzzing mosquito. I felt disproportionately annoyed at him, and I was determined to swat him away. 'If you want me to leave, tell me to leave. Tell me to choose another master.' 'Why should I? It makes no odds to me.' 'Well then, leave me alone, so I can get on with my thinking. Your shallow little brain is sapping my thoughts away.'
< 8 >
'You're full of crap. Show me one deep thought you've written since you've been here.' 'I've not yet committed anything to paper.' 'Then tell me one deep thought you've come up with since being here.' 'No!' I whined. 'Ha! A-ha! That's not your decision to make,' he asserted, with some degree of glee. 'I'm deciding that you will tell me all of your deepest thoughts.' 'I -' I started, but then I realised that I had to comply. I had no free will, and I had been given a direct order, so I had to comply. I opened my mouth, ready to dispense some overblown piece of wisdom that would quieten him at last, but with a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach, I realised that I could not think of anything at all. The sinking feeling grew into a mental panic. That was the turning point: I realised that I had not had a single deep thought since the day I gave away everything I owned at the public common. I had not written a word of philosophy since this experiment began. And it was my own fault, not Leo's. That single revelation, the possibility that I was failing because I was inadequate, terrified me to the core. I stayed quiet. 'There you go,' Leo said calmly. 'Now watch television and think about what you've done. Think about what you want. I'm going to bed.' As he left he added: 'If you're not here in the morning, goodbye.' But I stayed. I was too shaken to move on. I didn't even have anywhere to go - and now I could see that I might have given it all away for nothing. Had I ever had a deep thought in my life? The more I thought about it the more it scared me. I was all success and no soul. I watched television all night that night, numbing my brain to the emptiness of my situation. Leo did not say a word to me in the morning as he got up and left for work. I cried. I wasn't even sure what for. I had to think. Leo had ordered me to think about what I wanted. Without really being conscious that I was making a decision to do so, I left the flat and went for a walk.
< 9 >
I inhaled the crisp sunshine air as I approached the public common. I cast my eyes over the scattered people jogging, walking, chatting, sitting; and I asked myself, 'Why?' Why was I here? Why had I done all the things I had done? Why was I unhappy? I was back in the flat when Leo returned from work. The television was off. 'How are you feeling?' asked Leo. 'Lost,' I admitted. 'I would like to stay, if I may.' 'Sure,' he nodded sympathetically. He studied me for a while, and I think the corners of his mouth raised into a half-smile, but only for a second. 'I'm going out for a couple of beers with some friends of mine. Do you want to come?' 'If you say so,' I whimpered. 'Come.' I got to know his friends in the weeks after that, and I began to rediscover myself. I had never had that kind of companionship before - it made me see things in a different way. These new friends did not judge me for what I had done badly, or for what I had not yet achieved. The people I used to call friends were only friends while I was successful, but these new friends had no expectations from me, and they included me in their lives without conditions. These friends became a sounding board for my thoughts and worries, an earthly touchstone for my life rather than having to measure myself against the entire cosmos. I came to value them above all else. I took a gardening job and started paying Leo some rent. Of course, I had to start making some of my own decisions again, but only small ones. The big decisions, about where my life was going, or how I could inject meaning into it, did not trouble me anymore. Leo became less of a master and more of a mentor for me. I grew to view him very fondly. And what surprised me most was the realisation of how lonely I had been before. My friends, and Leo - my best friend - have helped me to appreciate the small things in life. The most important things. Now that the burden of aimless ambition has faded away, I can work with them to build a quieter purpose in our lives.
< 10 > One day soon I will be dead. People will look back at my life, and they might say I was a martial artist; they might say I was a musician; they might say I was a footballer. They might even say I was a philosopher, for now that my personality has become less broad and more deep, my thoughts have become deeper too. Recently I have felt the edges of philosophical inspiration tickling my mind, and it won't be long before it becomes clear enough to commit to paper. But I think I would prefer it if they said, above all, he was my friend.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Story 2-Comedy
Heres another story
It is called Doctor Moreau Did It
It's translated by Michele McKay Aynesworth
1
Everything in life has its season. And so the day came when Marina said, "I want you to meet my folks."
2
Ten years have passed since that muggy summer afternoon out in Acassuso. I can still see the eucalyptus trees swaying overhead and smell the distant rain; it's Marina's face I can't remember. She was a knockout, I'm sure of that. I was in love with her, of course, but no one can deny she was a knockout. And what else . . . what else can I remember? She was a tall brunette, dumb and cheerful, infinitely loveable. How many times we swore we were meant for each other! I wonder if I seem as hazy to her now as she does to me.
3
We were in our twenties, and everything was going right for me. Till then, I'd never known bad luck, and if I had, I'd forgotten it. With wide-eyed optimism, I took for granted the honesty of politicians, the promotions I'd earn during my career, the completion of my studies, and the dignity of mankind. I inhabited the best of all possible worlds. Except for minor, foreseeable blips, my plans were all on target. There was no doubt that within a year at most Marina and I would wed. So, as everything in life has its season, the day came when Marina said, "I want you to meet my folks."
4
Señora Stella Maris was an older version of Marina (whose whole name was, unfortunately, Marina Ondina). I expected Marina to be just like her in another twenty years when we'd have a daughter of our own with names less cloying. Such was the long-range goal I had in mind as I said hello. Señora Stella Maris was, of course, an elegant lady of forty-five, tall, brunette, and cheerful. Marina's father, on the other hand, turned out to be the most disgusting man I've ever known. His lot in life was to be short. Now this is not a serious problem. He was not a dwarf, he just wasn't very tall. What completely floored me was the fact that his head alone took up more that half his height. And, my God, what a head! The first thing that caught my attention (or, rather, put me off) was his strange color. His skin, reflecting the shifting light, could be dazzling at times, varying from pink to black with all the shades in between. At the same time, it seemed clammy and sticky. He was completely bald and clearly always had been. No hair would ever sprout on that head. Its upper half threatened to become a perfect globe, but, foiled at the equator (more or less at the height of his missing ears), the head morphed into a cylindrical column which, without any transition for neck or shoulders, became lost among the folds of a kind of yellow, floor-length terry-cloth tunic. In other words, Marina's father had the same diameter from top to bottom. He was a round-topped monolith, wrapped half-way up with a yellow towel. Located a few centimeters above the toga, Señor Octavio's mouth, a mobile, toothless fissure, at once supple and hard as horn, would draw in until it disappeared — or would open so wide it seemed his throat had been slit, and his head, left to teeter on its precarious base by the slipshod assassin, seemed likely to come crashing down at the slightest movement. Where his ears and nose should have been, the skin was as polished and smooth as his bald pate — nothing, not even a scar or a wrinkle, not the slightest mark. The two eyes were huge, round, and bloodshot, with no eyebrows or eyelashes, no whites, no pupils, no expression.
< 2 >
5
"Señor Octavio is on a diet," explained Señora Stella Maris, seeing me stare at the plate intended for her husband. Señora Stella Maris, Marina, and I ate what you might call normal food. Señor Octavio's plate, on the other hand, was like an anthology of sea life. The sudden stench exploded in my nostrils, bringing tears to my eyes. Since my future father-in-law's sleeves were knotted at the ends, he wielded his knife and fork like a person who'd forgotten to remove his gloves. Round after round of raw fish, mollusks, and crustaceans were quickly polished off. By my estimate he ate at least five kilos of the gaudy things; I could make out squid, shrimp, oysters, crabs, snails, jellyfish, mussels, clams, starfish, sea urchins, coral, sponges, and fish of questionable identity. "Señor Octavio is on a diet," repeated Señora Stella Maris toward the end of the meal. "Shall we have our coffee in the living room?" I made way for Señor Octavio and watched him walk by. He moved erratically, sometimes taking a very quick step, sometimes a very slow one, without the regularity of a limp. His way of walking made me think of a car with four different wheels — triangular, oblong, round, and oval. I already mentioned that his yellow toga covered him completely, except for his head. The garment's tail was so long it dragged behind him like a bridal train. Señora Stella Maris placed a tray of cups on an elaborate, eight-sided coffee table flanked by two small sofas. Marina and I sat in one of them; facing us, with the table in between, sat Señor Octavio and his wife. I now noticed another oddity. As if to emphasize important points when he spoke, invisible arms seemed in motion beneath Señor Octavio's tunic. So violent and frequent were the yellow bubbles formed by the toga, his body appeared to be boiling. Señor Octavio hogged the conversation. He talked and talked and talked. I wasn't really listening, however. I was asking myself, "Could this monster possibly be the father of Marina, my lovely, delightful, angelic Marina?" Suddenly I was sure that in her youth Señora Stella Maris had been unfaithful to her husband and that Marina was the fruit of an illicit love affair. Carried away by this idea, I found myself casting complicitous looks at Señora Stella Maris (fortunately, she didn't see them) as if to say I was in on her secret, but wasn't about to give her away. On the contrary, I approved wholeheartedly, and, in fact, would have forgiven anything rather than acknowledge this babbling monster as the father of my Marina.
<3>
A question aimed my way brought me back to the present. The conversation had sunk to a new low, with Señora Stella Maris holding forth energetically on the topic of illnesses--one she seemed right at home with. "You're like a fish in water," remarked Señor Octavio. Smiling proudly, she plunged ahead. Her résumé was impressive: operations, fractures, heart attacks, liver ailments, nervous breakdowns . . . . Being somewhat timid, I'd kept quiet up to now, but stung by a look from Marina, I humbly offered up the asthma attacks that plagued me from time to time. "For asthma," said Señor Octavio, his voice bubbling over, "there's nothing better than the sea. The sea is far better than any of those worthless cures doctors prescribe, except, of course, for cod liver oil." "Really, Octavio," retorted his wife, "you can't be serious. Remember that time in Mar del Plata, I caught a cold that lasted two months." "Stop fishing for arguments," Señor Octavio insisted. "You caught that cold here, just a few kilometers from Buenos Aires, when we were going to Mar del Plata, not in Mar del Plata. There's nothing like the sea for one's health." "Of course, of course," they said, we said, I said; "the coastal climate, the iodine, the sand . . . ." "Nothing better than the sea," repeated Señor Octavio in a tone of unshakable authority. "Eight days at sea, and so long asthma! You won't even remember you had it." "Sure, Daddy," agreed Marina, "you like the sea because you're an Aquarius, but there are people who feel out of place in . . . . Me, for example, even though I'm a Pisces . . . ." "And my sign is Cancer," said Señora Stella Maris, "but I don't much like the sea, either." "Well, as far as I'm concerned," Marina confessed, "it gives me the creeps." "Eyewash," said Señor Octavio. "It's all a matter of getting the body to adapt. Once you get used to it, you'll see how the sea can soothe your nerves." "Talk about nerves," interrupted Señora Stella Maris, "what a scare we had on that flight from Rio . . . ." "I warned you." (Señor Octavio's guiding rule of conduct was to argue with whatever was said.) "I told you, go by boat. Boats are safe, comfortable, cheap, you can smell the sea, you can watch the fish . . . . Planes may take less time, but there's just no comparison."
4
The force with which he said this left us at a loss for words. I didn't feel up to any more conversation. As a matter of fact, I didn't feel up to much at all. Though his high-handed pronouncements were delivered with a surprising friendliness, Señor Octavio's monstrous appearance — his watery voice, the smell of his seafood diet — convinced me it was time to go. I could feel the sweat breaking out on my brow, my shirt collar getting tighter. I was quite disoriented, sick, in fact, and only wanted to go home. My legs began to sway uncontrollably, and the rumblings in my stomach promised imminent eruption. But that yapping threesome was unstoppable. Though their comments always met with an objection from Señor Octavio, Señora Stella Maris and Marina did not seem to mind. This was clearly their normal way of conversing. Once more I realized that my opinion was being asked for. The topic for debate was where Marina and I should go on our honeymoon. Running her words together without much conviction, Marina suggested the countryside, the hills of Córdoba, the northern provinces; Señor Octavio held firmly for Mar del Plata. "It's healthier," he said, "more natural. You have the sea, the salt, the iodine, the sand, the seashells . . . . Nothing better than the sea." I was about to pass out. I thought I could hear Marina arguing in favor of somewhere quiet, away from the tourists . . . . "You want somewhere quiet?" Señor Octavio was not to be outdone. "You've got San Clemente, Santa Clara del Mar, Santa Teresita . . . . There's scads of quiet places on the Atlantic coast!" With great effort I got up and announced feebly that it was time to go. "So early?" asked Señor Octavio, checking his watch. "It's just eight minutes to midnight." The reproach accompanying his words threw me back on the sofa. What a powerful influence that dreadful man exerted! I clung to the hope that a bottle of whiskey recently brought in by Señora Stella Maris might boost my spirits and emptied my glass in one swallow. "In my heyday," Señor Octavio was saying, "when I was young, we would go down to the waterfront bars in Bah'a Blanca to dance . . . ."
5
I was momentarily distracted as I tried to imagine Señor Octavio dancing. "Sometimes we would dance till the sun came up. But young people these days, eight o'clock and they're already in bed, with their wittle bwankeypoos and their wittle hot water bottles . . . . Ha, ha, ha! Like a bunch of kindergarten kids." Señor Octavio's monologue, punctuated in its final phase by the offensive baby talk, had taken on the unmistakable tone of a personal attack. I stood up, resolved to use force if necessary to get away. Luckily, I didn't have to resort to violence. Señor Octavio recovered his charm and, after holding out the knotted end of his sleeve to me, said, with the unhurried ease of someone preparing to bring a perfect day to a close, "Well," — and through the terry-cloth sleeves, he rubbed his hands together — "now to bed with a good book." I nodded vigorously. I wanted to get out of that house. If I'd stayed another second, I believe I would've fainted. "I'll walk you to the sidewalk," Marina said.
6
The blessed fragrance of pine and fir trees hit me as we crossed the yard. I breathed deeply, letting the fresh air dispel any lingering fish odors. I felt refreshed; suddenly my stomach trouble was gone. "You saw poor Daddy?" began Marina. "Yes," I answered vaguely, not sure what to say. "He's much better," she continued, putting her arm around my waist like someone about to confide a secret. "A year ago we couldn't get him out of the pool. Day and night in the pool. Now, at least, he eats at the table and sleeps in his bed. That's progress, isn't it?" She said so many things, but I focused on one, the least important: "Your house has a swimming pool?" "Of course, didn't I tell you? In the back yard. I can't show it to you now because Daddy's using it. Every night he takes a dip before he goes to bed. He digests his food better that way." I asked a stupid question: "Doesn't it interfere with his digestion?" "Oh, no, just the reverse. He needs salt water. True, when he's in the water, he gets very aggressive and doesn't recognize anyone, not even us. When he's back on land, well, you saw how nice and friendly he is . . . ."
6
Appalled, and wanting to stall, I checked my watch. Marina was waiting for me to make a move. "And the neighbors?" I asked. "Don't they complain?" "Why should they? There's no noise. Daddy couldn't be any quieter. He doesn't even dive in. He goes to the edge of the pool and lets himself slide in like this: shhhh . . . ." Her hand slithered softly over my face. Startled, I jumped back. Marina tried to put me at ease with a funny story: "One night he was halfway under water, near the edge of the pool. Our neighbor's little dog came through the hedge and started sniffing around the pool. Then some of Daddy's arms popped out and . . . shak!" And with a playful smile, Marina pretended to strangle me. She didn't touch me, she just moved forward, with her arms, suddenly strong and rubbery, stretched out in my direction. If before I had jumped backward, I now flew several meters. Marina started laughing, amused by this overreaction. She laughed and laughed and laughed. Her mouth seemed to open all the way to the back of her neck, her head became rounder and longer, her nose and ears disappeared, she lost her magnificent dark hair, her skin tone was alternating between black and pink . . . . To keep from falling, I leaned against a tree. "Hey, what's the matter?" Marina shook my arm, and I came to my senses. She was the same adorable Marina as always: a tall brunette, dumb and cheerful, infinitely loveable. "It's nothing," I said, fighting to breathe. "I just don't feel very good." To cheer me up even more, she said, "Why don't you come over for a swim tomorrow morning. It's Sunday, you know. Bring your suit, and in you go." I promised I would, around ten. I said good-bye to Marina as always, with a kiss. "See you tomorrow," I said.
7But I didn't go back. With sudden clarity, before the train had reached the second stop on my way home, I knew what I had to do. For the next two weeks I was a whirlwind of feverish activity, putting all my affairs in order. I avoided answering the phone and managed to change my address as well as my job. As the crime stories say, I no longer frequented the usual places. In time, I was able to settle permanently in the province of La Pampa. The city of Santa Rosa enjoys a very dry climate and is located as far from the Atlantic Ocean as it is from the Pacific.
It is called Doctor Moreau Did It
It's translated by Michele McKay Aynesworth
1
Everything in life has its season. And so the day came when Marina said, "I want you to meet my folks."
2
Ten years have passed since that muggy summer afternoon out in Acassuso. I can still see the eucalyptus trees swaying overhead and smell the distant rain; it's Marina's face I can't remember. She was a knockout, I'm sure of that. I was in love with her, of course, but no one can deny she was a knockout. And what else . . . what else can I remember? She was a tall brunette, dumb and cheerful, infinitely loveable. How many times we swore we were meant for each other! I wonder if I seem as hazy to her now as she does to me.
3
We were in our twenties, and everything was going right for me. Till then, I'd never known bad luck, and if I had, I'd forgotten it. With wide-eyed optimism, I took for granted the honesty of politicians, the promotions I'd earn during my career, the completion of my studies, and the dignity of mankind. I inhabited the best of all possible worlds. Except for minor, foreseeable blips, my plans were all on target. There was no doubt that within a year at most Marina and I would wed. So, as everything in life has its season, the day came when Marina said, "I want you to meet my folks."
4
Señora Stella Maris was an older version of Marina (whose whole name was, unfortunately, Marina Ondina). I expected Marina to be just like her in another twenty years when we'd have a daughter of our own with names less cloying. Such was the long-range goal I had in mind as I said hello. Señora Stella Maris was, of course, an elegant lady of forty-five, tall, brunette, and cheerful. Marina's father, on the other hand, turned out to be the most disgusting man I've ever known. His lot in life was to be short. Now this is not a serious problem. He was not a dwarf, he just wasn't very tall. What completely floored me was the fact that his head alone took up more that half his height. And, my God, what a head! The first thing that caught my attention (or, rather, put me off) was his strange color. His skin, reflecting the shifting light, could be dazzling at times, varying from pink to black with all the shades in between. At the same time, it seemed clammy and sticky. He was completely bald and clearly always had been. No hair would ever sprout on that head. Its upper half threatened to become a perfect globe, but, foiled at the equator (more or less at the height of his missing ears), the head morphed into a cylindrical column which, without any transition for neck or shoulders, became lost among the folds of a kind of yellow, floor-length terry-cloth tunic. In other words, Marina's father had the same diameter from top to bottom. He was a round-topped monolith, wrapped half-way up with a yellow towel. Located a few centimeters above the toga, Señor Octavio's mouth, a mobile, toothless fissure, at once supple and hard as horn, would draw in until it disappeared — or would open so wide it seemed his throat had been slit, and his head, left to teeter on its precarious base by the slipshod assassin, seemed likely to come crashing down at the slightest movement. Where his ears and nose should have been, the skin was as polished and smooth as his bald pate — nothing, not even a scar or a wrinkle, not the slightest mark. The two eyes were huge, round, and bloodshot, with no eyebrows or eyelashes, no whites, no pupils, no expression.
< 2 >
5
"Señor Octavio is on a diet," explained Señora Stella Maris, seeing me stare at the plate intended for her husband. Señora Stella Maris, Marina, and I ate what you might call normal food. Señor Octavio's plate, on the other hand, was like an anthology of sea life. The sudden stench exploded in my nostrils, bringing tears to my eyes. Since my future father-in-law's sleeves were knotted at the ends, he wielded his knife and fork like a person who'd forgotten to remove his gloves. Round after round of raw fish, mollusks, and crustaceans were quickly polished off. By my estimate he ate at least five kilos of the gaudy things; I could make out squid, shrimp, oysters, crabs, snails, jellyfish, mussels, clams, starfish, sea urchins, coral, sponges, and fish of questionable identity. "Señor Octavio is on a diet," repeated Señora Stella Maris toward the end of the meal. "Shall we have our coffee in the living room?" I made way for Señor Octavio and watched him walk by. He moved erratically, sometimes taking a very quick step, sometimes a very slow one, without the regularity of a limp. His way of walking made me think of a car with four different wheels — triangular, oblong, round, and oval. I already mentioned that his yellow toga covered him completely, except for his head. The garment's tail was so long it dragged behind him like a bridal train. Señora Stella Maris placed a tray of cups on an elaborate, eight-sided coffee table flanked by two small sofas. Marina and I sat in one of them; facing us, with the table in between, sat Señor Octavio and his wife. I now noticed another oddity. As if to emphasize important points when he spoke, invisible arms seemed in motion beneath Señor Octavio's tunic. So violent and frequent were the yellow bubbles formed by the toga, his body appeared to be boiling. Señor Octavio hogged the conversation. He talked and talked and talked. I wasn't really listening, however. I was asking myself, "Could this monster possibly be the father of Marina, my lovely, delightful, angelic Marina?" Suddenly I was sure that in her youth Señora Stella Maris had been unfaithful to her husband and that Marina was the fruit of an illicit love affair. Carried away by this idea, I found myself casting complicitous looks at Señora Stella Maris (fortunately, she didn't see them) as if to say I was in on her secret, but wasn't about to give her away. On the contrary, I approved wholeheartedly, and, in fact, would have forgiven anything rather than acknowledge this babbling monster as the father of my Marina.
<3>
A question aimed my way brought me back to the present. The conversation had sunk to a new low, with Señora Stella Maris holding forth energetically on the topic of illnesses--one she seemed right at home with. "You're like a fish in water," remarked Señor Octavio. Smiling proudly, she plunged ahead. Her résumé was impressive: operations, fractures, heart attacks, liver ailments, nervous breakdowns . . . . Being somewhat timid, I'd kept quiet up to now, but stung by a look from Marina, I humbly offered up the asthma attacks that plagued me from time to time. "For asthma," said Señor Octavio, his voice bubbling over, "there's nothing better than the sea. The sea is far better than any of those worthless cures doctors prescribe, except, of course, for cod liver oil." "Really, Octavio," retorted his wife, "you can't be serious. Remember that time in Mar del Plata, I caught a cold that lasted two months." "Stop fishing for arguments," Señor Octavio insisted. "You caught that cold here, just a few kilometers from Buenos Aires, when we were going to Mar del Plata, not in Mar del Plata. There's nothing like the sea for one's health." "Of course, of course," they said, we said, I said; "the coastal climate, the iodine, the sand . . . ." "Nothing better than the sea," repeated Señor Octavio in a tone of unshakable authority. "Eight days at sea, and so long asthma! You won't even remember you had it." "Sure, Daddy," agreed Marina, "you like the sea because you're an Aquarius, but there are people who feel out of place in . . . . Me, for example, even though I'm a Pisces . . . ." "And my sign is Cancer," said Señora Stella Maris, "but I don't much like the sea, either." "Well, as far as I'm concerned," Marina confessed, "it gives me the creeps." "Eyewash," said Señor Octavio. "It's all a matter of getting the body to adapt. Once you get used to it, you'll see how the sea can soothe your nerves." "Talk about nerves," interrupted Señora Stella Maris, "what a scare we had on that flight from Rio . . . ." "I warned you." (Señor Octavio's guiding rule of conduct was to argue with whatever was said.) "I told you, go by boat. Boats are safe, comfortable, cheap, you can smell the sea, you can watch the fish . . . . Planes may take less time, but there's just no comparison."
4
The force with which he said this left us at a loss for words. I didn't feel up to any more conversation. As a matter of fact, I didn't feel up to much at all. Though his high-handed pronouncements were delivered with a surprising friendliness, Señor Octavio's monstrous appearance — his watery voice, the smell of his seafood diet — convinced me it was time to go. I could feel the sweat breaking out on my brow, my shirt collar getting tighter. I was quite disoriented, sick, in fact, and only wanted to go home. My legs began to sway uncontrollably, and the rumblings in my stomach promised imminent eruption. But that yapping threesome was unstoppable. Though their comments always met with an objection from Señor Octavio, Señora Stella Maris and Marina did not seem to mind. This was clearly their normal way of conversing. Once more I realized that my opinion was being asked for. The topic for debate was where Marina and I should go on our honeymoon. Running her words together without much conviction, Marina suggested the countryside, the hills of Córdoba, the northern provinces; Señor Octavio held firmly for Mar del Plata. "It's healthier," he said, "more natural. You have the sea, the salt, the iodine, the sand, the seashells . . . . Nothing better than the sea." I was about to pass out. I thought I could hear Marina arguing in favor of somewhere quiet, away from the tourists . . . . "You want somewhere quiet?" Señor Octavio was not to be outdone. "You've got San Clemente, Santa Clara del Mar, Santa Teresita . . . . There's scads of quiet places on the Atlantic coast!" With great effort I got up and announced feebly that it was time to go. "So early?" asked Señor Octavio, checking his watch. "It's just eight minutes to midnight." The reproach accompanying his words threw me back on the sofa. What a powerful influence that dreadful man exerted! I clung to the hope that a bottle of whiskey recently brought in by Señora Stella Maris might boost my spirits and emptied my glass in one swallow. "In my heyday," Señor Octavio was saying, "when I was young, we would go down to the waterfront bars in Bah'a Blanca to dance . . . ."
5
I was momentarily distracted as I tried to imagine Señor Octavio dancing. "Sometimes we would dance till the sun came up. But young people these days, eight o'clock and they're already in bed, with their wittle bwankeypoos and their wittle hot water bottles . . . . Ha, ha, ha! Like a bunch of kindergarten kids." Señor Octavio's monologue, punctuated in its final phase by the offensive baby talk, had taken on the unmistakable tone of a personal attack. I stood up, resolved to use force if necessary to get away. Luckily, I didn't have to resort to violence. Señor Octavio recovered his charm and, after holding out the knotted end of his sleeve to me, said, with the unhurried ease of someone preparing to bring a perfect day to a close, "Well," — and through the terry-cloth sleeves, he rubbed his hands together — "now to bed with a good book." I nodded vigorously. I wanted to get out of that house. If I'd stayed another second, I believe I would've fainted. "I'll walk you to the sidewalk," Marina said.
6
The blessed fragrance of pine and fir trees hit me as we crossed the yard. I breathed deeply, letting the fresh air dispel any lingering fish odors. I felt refreshed; suddenly my stomach trouble was gone. "You saw poor Daddy?" began Marina. "Yes," I answered vaguely, not sure what to say. "He's much better," she continued, putting her arm around my waist like someone about to confide a secret. "A year ago we couldn't get him out of the pool. Day and night in the pool. Now, at least, he eats at the table and sleeps in his bed. That's progress, isn't it?" She said so many things, but I focused on one, the least important: "Your house has a swimming pool?" "Of course, didn't I tell you? In the back yard. I can't show it to you now because Daddy's using it. Every night he takes a dip before he goes to bed. He digests his food better that way." I asked a stupid question: "Doesn't it interfere with his digestion?" "Oh, no, just the reverse. He needs salt water. True, when he's in the water, he gets very aggressive and doesn't recognize anyone, not even us. When he's back on land, well, you saw how nice and friendly he is . . . ."
6
Appalled, and wanting to stall, I checked my watch. Marina was waiting for me to make a move. "And the neighbors?" I asked. "Don't they complain?" "Why should they? There's no noise. Daddy couldn't be any quieter. He doesn't even dive in. He goes to the edge of the pool and lets himself slide in like this: shhhh . . . ." Her hand slithered softly over my face. Startled, I jumped back. Marina tried to put me at ease with a funny story: "One night he was halfway under water, near the edge of the pool. Our neighbor's little dog came through the hedge and started sniffing around the pool. Then some of Daddy's arms popped out and . . . shak!" And with a playful smile, Marina pretended to strangle me. She didn't touch me, she just moved forward, with her arms, suddenly strong and rubbery, stretched out in my direction. If before I had jumped backward, I now flew several meters. Marina started laughing, amused by this overreaction. She laughed and laughed and laughed. Her mouth seemed to open all the way to the back of her neck, her head became rounder and longer, her nose and ears disappeared, she lost her magnificent dark hair, her skin tone was alternating between black and pink . . . . To keep from falling, I leaned against a tree. "Hey, what's the matter?" Marina shook my arm, and I came to my senses. She was the same adorable Marina as always: a tall brunette, dumb and cheerful, infinitely loveable. "It's nothing," I said, fighting to breathe. "I just don't feel very good." To cheer me up even more, she said, "Why don't you come over for a swim tomorrow morning. It's Sunday, you know. Bring your suit, and in you go." I promised I would, around ten. I said good-bye to Marina as always, with a kiss. "See you tomorrow," I said.
7But I didn't go back. With sudden clarity, before the train had reached the second stop on my way home, I knew what I had to do. For the next two weeks I was a whirlwind of feverish activity, putting all my affairs in order. I avoided answering the phone and managed to change my address as well as my job. As the crime stories say, I no longer frequented the usual places. In time, I was able to settle permanently in the province of La Pampa. The city of Santa Rosa enjoys a very dry climate and is located as far from the Atlantic Ocean as it is from the Pacific.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Story 1-Comedy
I actually found this story somewhere.
Its called
Professor Panini
I have to give credit to the author, his name is Matthew Grigg
Before my many years' service in a restaurant, I attended a top science university. The year was 2023 and I was finishing the project that would win me my professorship. In the end, it resulted in my becoming a kitchen employee. My forty-second birthday had made a lonely visit the week before, and I was once again by myself in the flat. Like countless other mornings, I ordered a bagel from the toaster. 'Yes, sir!' it replied with robotic relish, and I began the day's work on the project. It was a magnificent machine, the thing I was making - capable of transferring the minds of any two beings into each other's bodies. As the toaster began serving my bagel on to a plate, I realised the project was in fact ready for testing. I retrieved the duck and the cat - which I had bought for this purpose ñ from their containers, and set about calibrating the machine in their direction. Once ready, I leant against the table, holding the bagel I was too excited to eat, and initiated the transfer sequence. As expected, the machine whirred and hummed into action, my nerves tingling at its synthetic sounds. The machine hushed, extraction and injection nozzles poised, scrutinizing its targets. The cat, though, was suddenly gripped by terrible alarm. The brute leapt into the air, flinging itself onto the machine. I watched in horror as the nozzles swung towards me; and, with a terrible, psychedelic whirl of colours, felt my mind wrenched from its sockets. When I awoke, moments later, I noticed first that I was two feet shorter. Then, I realised the lack of my limbs, and finally it occurred to me that I was a toaster. I saw immediately the solution to the situation - the machine could easily reverse the transfer - but was then struck by my utter inability to carry this out. After some consideration, using what I supposed must be the toaster's onboard computer, I devised a strategy for rescue. I began to familiarise myself with my new body: the grill, the bread bin, the speaker and the spring mechanism. Through the device's rudimentary eye - with which it served its creations - I could see the internal telephone on the wall. Aiming carefully, I began propelling slices of bread at it. The toaster was fed by a large stock of the stuff, yet as more and more bounced lamely off the phone, I began to fear its exhaustion.
< 2 >
*Toasting the bread before launch proved a wiser tactic. A slice of crusty wholemeal knocked the receiver off its cradle, and the immovable voice of the reception clerk answered. Resisting the urge to exclaim my unlikely predicament, I called from the table: 'I'm having a bit of trouble up here, Room 91. Could you lend a hand?''Certainly, sir. There's a burst water pipe on the floor above, I suppose I'll kill two birds with one stone and sort you out on the way,' The clerk arrived promptly, leaving his 'caution, wet floor' sign in the corridor. He came in, surveying the room in his usual dry, disapproving fashion. I spoke immediately, saying I was on the intercom, and requested that he simply press the large button on the machine before him. 'This one, sir?' he asked, and before I could correct him, the room was filled with a terrible, whirling light, and he fell to the ground. A minute later he stood up again, uncertainly, and began moving in a manner that can only be described as a waddle. The duck, meanwhile, was scrutinising the flat with an air of wearied distaste. I gazed at the scene with dismay. Suddenly an idea struck the clerk, and with avian glee he tottered towards the window. I spluttered a horrified warning to no avail. He leapt triumphantly from the balcony, spread his 'wings' and disappeared. I would have wept, but managed only to eject a few crumbs.
*Hours of melancholy calculation and terrible guilt gave no progress, and left me with a woeful regret for the day's events. Determined not to give up hope, I began to burn clumsy messages into slices of bread, and slung these desperate distress calls through the window. I sought not only my own salvation, but also to account for the bizarre demise of the clerk, who must no doubt have been discovered on the street below. I soon found my bread bin to be empty, and sank again into a morose meditation.A large movement shocked me from my morbid contemplation. Before me, having clambered up from the floor, stood my own body. It regarded me with dim cheer.
< 3 > 'I have been upgraded,' it announced in monotone. The room was silent as I struggled to cope with this information. Then: 'Would you like some toast?' The truth dawned on me, and I wasted no time in seeing the utility of this revelation. I informed the toaster, which was now in control of my body, that I wished it to fetch help. It regarded me warily, then asked if I would like that buttered. Maintaining patience, I explained the instruction more thoroughly. I watched with surreal anticipation as my body of forty-two years jerked its way out of the flat. It rounded the corner, and there was a hope-dashing crash. It had tripped up on the 'caution: wet floor' sign. To my joyous relief, however, I heard the thing continue on its way down the corridor. Minutes passed, then hours. I entertained myself flicking wheat-based projectiles at the cat. On the dawn of the third day, I concluded that the toaster had failed in its piloting of my body, and that help was not on its way. Gripped by the despair of one who must solve the puzzle of toaster suicide, I resigned myself to my fate. Pushed on by a grim fervour, I began igniting the entire stock of bread. As the smoke poured from my casing, and the first hints of deadly flame flickered in my mechanisms, I began the solemn disclosure of my own eulogy. Suddenly the fire alarm leapt into action, hurling thick jets of water across the flat, desperate to save its occupants. A piercing wail erupted from all sides, and a squabbling mixture of annoyance, relief and curiosity filtered into my mind.
*Once the firemen had visited and deactivated the alarm, I was identified as the fault, unplugged and hauled away to a repair shop. The staff there, finding nothing to remove but a faulty speech chip, apparently put me up for sale. I only know this because, on being reconnected to the mains, I found myself in a shiny, spacious kitchen. Missing my electronic voice, I could only listen to the conversation of the staff, discussing the odd conduct of their new cook. The end of their hurried discussion heralded his arrival. I gazed at the door in silent surrender, as my body stepped proudly on to the premises, displaying its newly designed menu. At the top of the list I could discern 'Buttered bagel'.
Its called
Professor Panini
I have to give credit to the author, his name is Matthew Grigg
Before my many years' service in a restaurant, I attended a top science university. The year was 2023 and I was finishing the project that would win me my professorship. In the end, it resulted in my becoming a kitchen employee. My forty-second birthday had made a lonely visit the week before, and I was once again by myself in the flat. Like countless other mornings, I ordered a bagel from the toaster. 'Yes, sir!' it replied with robotic relish, and I began the day's work on the project. It was a magnificent machine, the thing I was making - capable of transferring the minds of any two beings into each other's bodies. As the toaster began serving my bagel on to a plate, I realised the project was in fact ready for testing. I retrieved the duck and the cat - which I had bought for this purpose ñ from their containers, and set about calibrating the machine in their direction. Once ready, I leant against the table, holding the bagel I was too excited to eat, and initiated the transfer sequence. As expected, the machine whirred and hummed into action, my nerves tingling at its synthetic sounds. The machine hushed, extraction and injection nozzles poised, scrutinizing its targets. The cat, though, was suddenly gripped by terrible alarm. The brute leapt into the air, flinging itself onto the machine. I watched in horror as the nozzles swung towards me; and, with a terrible, psychedelic whirl of colours, felt my mind wrenched from its sockets. When I awoke, moments later, I noticed first that I was two feet shorter. Then, I realised the lack of my limbs, and finally it occurred to me that I was a toaster. I saw immediately the solution to the situation - the machine could easily reverse the transfer - but was then struck by my utter inability to carry this out. After some consideration, using what I supposed must be the toaster's onboard computer, I devised a strategy for rescue. I began to familiarise myself with my new body: the grill, the bread bin, the speaker and the spring mechanism. Through the device's rudimentary eye - with which it served its creations - I could see the internal telephone on the wall. Aiming carefully, I began propelling slices of bread at it. The toaster was fed by a large stock of the stuff, yet as more and more bounced lamely off the phone, I began to fear its exhaustion.
< 2 >
*Toasting the bread before launch proved a wiser tactic. A slice of crusty wholemeal knocked the receiver off its cradle, and the immovable voice of the reception clerk answered. Resisting the urge to exclaim my unlikely predicament, I called from the table: 'I'm having a bit of trouble up here, Room 91. Could you lend a hand?''Certainly, sir. There's a burst water pipe on the floor above, I suppose I'll kill two birds with one stone and sort you out on the way,' The clerk arrived promptly, leaving his 'caution, wet floor' sign in the corridor. He came in, surveying the room in his usual dry, disapproving fashion. I spoke immediately, saying I was on the intercom, and requested that he simply press the large button on the machine before him. 'This one, sir?' he asked, and before I could correct him, the room was filled with a terrible, whirling light, and he fell to the ground. A minute later he stood up again, uncertainly, and began moving in a manner that can only be described as a waddle. The duck, meanwhile, was scrutinising the flat with an air of wearied distaste. I gazed at the scene with dismay. Suddenly an idea struck the clerk, and with avian glee he tottered towards the window. I spluttered a horrified warning to no avail. He leapt triumphantly from the balcony, spread his 'wings' and disappeared. I would have wept, but managed only to eject a few crumbs.
*Hours of melancholy calculation and terrible guilt gave no progress, and left me with a woeful regret for the day's events. Determined not to give up hope, I began to burn clumsy messages into slices of bread, and slung these desperate distress calls through the window. I sought not only my own salvation, but also to account for the bizarre demise of the clerk, who must no doubt have been discovered on the street below. I soon found my bread bin to be empty, and sank again into a morose meditation.A large movement shocked me from my morbid contemplation. Before me, having clambered up from the floor, stood my own body. It regarded me with dim cheer.
< 3 > 'I have been upgraded,' it announced in monotone. The room was silent as I struggled to cope with this information. Then: 'Would you like some toast?' The truth dawned on me, and I wasted no time in seeing the utility of this revelation. I informed the toaster, which was now in control of my body, that I wished it to fetch help. It regarded me warily, then asked if I would like that buttered. Maintaining patience, I explained the instruction more thoroughly. I watched with surreal anticipation as my body of forty-two years jerked its way out of the flat. It rounded the corner, and there was a hope-dashing crash. It had tripped up on the 'caution: wet floor' sign. To my joyous relief, however, I heard the thing continue on its way down the corridor. Minutes passed, then hours. I entertained myself flicking wheat-based projectiles at the cat. On the dawn of the third day, I concluded that the toaster had failed in its piloting of my body, and that help was not on its way. Gripped by the despair of one who must solve the puzzle of toaster suicide, I resigned myself to my fate. Pushed on by a grim fervour, I began igniting the entire stock of bread. As the smoke poured from my casing, and the first hints of deadly flame flickered in my mechanisms, I began the solemn disclosure of my own eulogy. Suddenly the fire alarm leapt into action, hurling thick jets of water across the flat, desperate to save its occupants. A piercing wail erupted from all sides, and a squabbling mixture of annoyance, relief and curiosity filtered into my mind.
*Once the firemen had visited and deactivated the alarm, I was identified as the fault, unplugged and hauled away to a repair shop. The staff there, finding nothing to remove but a faulty speech chip, apparently put me up for sale. I only know this because, on being reconnected to the mains, I found myself in a shiny, spacious kitchen. Missing my electronic voice, I could only listen to the conversation of the staff, discussing the odd conduct of their new cook. The end of their hurried discussion heralded his arrival. I gazed at the door in silent surrender, as my body stepped proudly on to the premises, displaying its newly designed menu. At the top of the list I could discern 'Buttered bagel'.
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