X Man

I stepped into the machine with trepidation. It buzzed and whirred until a satisfying beep followed. There was silence before the doctor finally spoke, “I’m sorry. You’ve tested positive for the X gene.”

written for the Trifecta challenge.

Lorem Ipsum

Lorem Ipsum was only good at filling the space between people. He had no talents, no interests, no particular skills of any measurable worth beyond simply occupying the various voids that occurred throughout life. Sometimes he sat in the seat between two large people on the subway. Other times he would find himself queued up for services he didn’t even need or at banks with which he held no accounts. When nobody volunteered for the dunking booth at the town fair, Lorem Ipsum was selected for the honor. When a women was left sitting alone at a table in a restaurant, Lorem Ipsum was always found himself across her table. When the marriage of his mother and father had grown cold and distant, Lorem Ipsum was born to satiate the growing rift between them.

 

Online Dating

It was with great desperation for companionship that I had decided to turn toward online dating. My crippling social anxiety had made meeting women in my everyday life woefully unsuccessful, and once illegal. The holidays were fast approaching, and I so longed for the touch of another by a warm fire to feel human again. I vowed I would not spend another year wallowing in my solitude.

With excitement I took to the internet, filling in various profiles and personality sheets to ensure I met the most wonderful girl the world wide web had to offer. At first I described myself as tall and handsome, hoping to stand apart from the crowd. This yielded poor results and I found my profiles lost in the veritable sea of good looking people who spend all their time on the internet. I honed in on my good qualities, discussing my love of badminton and appreciation for Oscar Wilde. Again, my efforts seemed to get lost in the shuffle. Finally I took a most direct approach. No longer asking for love, I demanded it. I ordered the internet to bring me a most beautiful and voluptuous lover to be mine till death.

Days later I received a response from someone who seemed to be a perfect match. She described herself as well crafted and full-bodied, like a rare mead brewed by lost monks. She quoted Wilde in her response, and identified herself as the female badminton champion of Eastern Europe. She even went so far as to joke about her mortality, claiming she could be mine forever, without the hindrance of death.

We agreed to meet at a local pub  at 7:00 PM sharp that same evening. This all seemed rather sudden but decades of romantic cinemas had taught me the best love stories unfold in less than two hours. I arrived at the pub early on the night of our meet. A yellow rose sat on the table to single me out from the other eligible bachelors who were obviously far too plebeian to find love as efficiently as I had. I ordered a Dandelion and Burdock and sipped the concoction while eagerly awaiting her arrival. The Parliament Clock behind the bar read 6:58 and its ticks seemed to grow increasingly giddy to match my excitement. Finally, the clock struck seven and I jerked my head in both directions, looking for a voluptuous badminton player to whisk me away.

While my love seemed nowhere to be found, I did notice a dark figure through the undulating crowd of drunken football fans and strained my eyes to make out its shape. The figure moved closer, seemingly passing through the bar patrons with no effect. Time appeared to slow as it moved nearer and nearer. Soon the figure is seated across from me, a darkened haze of cold soot floating in the dirty breath around us. Its curves are very feminine, the shape of hips and busts and buttocks very pleasing to the eye. There is a face of sorts but nothing particularly describable. From its center the figure births a yellow rose out of the aching filth and places it on the table. It is nearly identical to mine and I know now that my date is right on time.

 

The Joys of Marriage

It is a stale and balmy Sunday in Ashford as I am in attendance for the marriage of Charles and Daphne Krump at the Royal Estates Country Club just outside of town. Their garden nuptials are rather beautiful and seem to be moving along just as anticipated before a gigantic bird resembling a buzzard swoops down from the clouds. I watch in awe as the creature extends its talons and wraps the bony hooks around the torso of the bride-to-be, dragging her back into the haze above our heads. Horrified by the sight, I look around to the other guests for confirmation of what I just witnessed, but find no other person sharing my reaction. The groom looks at the maid of honor, who then takes a large step to the right and nods at the priest, confirming that the ceremony can continue. The union of Charles and his substitute carries on until, again, a large and angry bird emerges from the heavens and steals another partner. Charles looks to the first bridesmaid who smiles and takes her new place with little hesitation. Again the bird returns and again the stolen spouse-to-be is replaced with the next in line. This continues for some time until guests, male and female alike, have begun filling in the ill-fated spot at the altar. It is not long before my turn arrives and I shuffle my feet down the rose-peddled aisle to the side of my dear friend Charles. My pale, terrified gaze turns towards his but is only met with a wink and sly smile before the priests booming voice requests our attention. I am unable to hear anything over the paralyzing fear I hold for what I can only assume is a swift and imminent death that approaches from up high. I stare at the clouds, my eyes darting to every subtle movement and variation in light and color. Time continues to pass and soon words are the only things still in the air. The clouds are gone and the sun is smiling down upon us with a most loving and blessed warmth. The ceremony comes to an end as a string quartet butchers the silence. Charles takes my hand and leads me back down the aisle, my mind only focused on what mistakes I could have made to seem so unworthy to the gigantic birds.

A Nightmare Vacation

A long overdue vacation is abruptly cut short when the captain of my cruise ship announces that we are sinking. He explains the situation is a result of navigational error and  his troubled youth. A brief counseling session is held to return the captain’s spirits, and he orders his crew to begin the evacuation process. Stampedes of poorly dressed mid-westernites flood the promenade deck in an effort to obtain prime window seating on the available life boats. Having stopped off at the on-board market for chocolate bars, I arrive far behind most of the crowds and am informed that no more emergency vessels are available. I’ve never had a particular apatite for chocolate, but I can recount a litany of fictional characters who, in survival situations,  always seemed to have chocolate on hand. Naturally, I assume it is a staple in such matters.

I am instructed to file into one of a dozen lines scattered throughout the ship, where I will be issued a flotation device with light, beacon, and whistle. I question the practicality of such an approach but my opinions are only met with aggravated stares and exasperated sighs. After some time in queue, I finally reach the end where the Physical Activities Director is providing passengers with an assortment of life saving apparati to choose from. The options come in a variety of shapes and sizes; Vests and belts and cushions and donuts and sticks and bags and tubes and boards and boxes and rings and jackets and other formations to complex to describe. I scratch my chin while surveying the available pieces. I don’t want something too bulky, but obviously not too small either. I know I definitely need something with storage for my chocolate bars, and I’d certainly prefer a single occupancy device.

The array of gear and instruments becomes dizzying and I grip the side rail for assistance. I can feel  dozens of eyes burning a hole in my back as I debate the options in front of me and the stress only further induces me to nausea. The Physical Activities Director  begins to tap her foot anxiously and I can tell her patience is running thin. I pick up a brightly colored orange vest, only to realize it is sized for a child. I place it back on the floor as an uproar of frustrated cries and berating words flood from the crowd. A majority of the boat is submerged by this point, and the slightest bit of water begins to lap across my feet, pushing and tugging on the lighter flotation aids.

I can feel the chocolate bars melting in my pocket under the hot summer sun, and I find myself wondering how many lives I’ve taken thus far with my incessant indecision.

The Farrago Nation

It is a bitterly cold evening on February 13th as I drive to meet a group of friends at a lake house in Prince Edward Park. The faded headlamps of my non-terrain two-wheel drive sports car struggle to satiate the darkness that binds the forest around us. I glance at the clock on the dashboard and sigh as I read its announcement aloud. 11:38. I am answered back only by the amorphous static of my radio trying to play the notes to songs it does not know, with words it can not pronounce.

I continue driving along the broken, unpaved roads, pausing to search the various empty forks that indicate a residence or camp site is near. The black of the forest looms at each entrance of the pre-determined villages, like neighborhoods with no homes and no signs and no people except for a fool in a sports car alone twenty minutes before Valentine’s Day.

As the realization sets in that I have driven in a complete circle, I place the car in park and sit back for a short while. My eyes glaze over as I watch the clock, which now taunts me with a new selection of numbers: 11:50. I read them aloud and close my eyes, the frostbite of fatigue washing over my body.

Semester at Sea

Having been run out of my home town near the sea for an unfortunate misunderstanding involving a banana, I decide to acquire a small sail boat and traverse the waters in search of both adventure and myself. Sadly my sailing skills leave much to be desired and I become the sole inhabitant of a painfully cliché deserted island. Sitting on the beach while the water laps between my toes, I think back to my life and the various choices I’d made that led me to this place.

I look to my left and see a younger version of myself sitting in the sand. He is pensive and brooding and clearly misunderstood. I ask him what might be troubling him and he replies I am going to die here without ever seeing the world. Without ever having truly lived. Without ever having achieved a great success or a miserable failure.

I look back toward the water and watch the sea’s sienna glimmer burn as the sun begins its arduous task of setting. I look to my right and see a much older version of myself kneeling in the sand. He is tired and satiated and clearly finished. I ask him what might be troubling him and he replies I am not going to die here because I died some time ago. I died sitting at a desk in a building filled with other desks. I died of absolutely nothing at all and I did it without ever seeing a place as beautiful as this.

The three of us watch the sea swallow the sun and soon the blackest of nights swallows everything else. The darkness is thick in my lungs like tar and gasoline and my breathing turns shallow. It is death incarnate and I can feel it pulling the life out of us.