Here is one short piece, and one shorter piece written for writer’s craft. The longer (466 words) was originally to be the true story of why I used to dislike bananas, but all references to fruit have been removed at the request of Dole. The shorter (250 words exactly) is very deep and means a lot.
Lex Familiae
It was late morning. I was in my room stomping idly in circles, pausing occasionally to kick at a chair leg or a dropped toy. My mood was decidedly foul, for I was to be shortly driven to Mrs. Sproate’s house; and this was not a place I had any inclination to be. The logic of my parents going out and needing someone to look after their four-year-old son escaped me. I felt greatly wronged. And I determined to do something about it.
I wandered out of my room and to where my father was unsurprisingly reading a book on the living room’s sofa. Dad often had taken my side on issues less obviously unreasonable than this one, but I still needed to deliver a convincing appeal. Every good debater has a template for each argument that can be slightly modified as needed, and I was no exception. I settled my furious, rambling mind somewhat and focused on delivering my case.
A deep breath.
“Daaaad!”
The careful whine was shrill and rather loud. I noticed my father wince slightly.
“Daaaaaaaaad!” Again—repetition for emphasis.
With my opening arguments out of the way, I wasted no time in tackling the real meat of my case.
“I don’t wanna go!” My voice was carefully disciplined—piercing and abrasive though not to the fullest. I always held something back, never quite reaching a voice as aggravating as I was capable of. Call it an ace up my sleeve.
Dad’s attention had been successfully pulled from the fanciful tale in the pages of his book and turned towards me. The wince remained on his face as his mouth opened in preparation for some argument of his own. But before any words could be formed, I compounded my own case with a clarifying point. “It’s not fair!” This time my added foot stomp and pouting mouth communicated the weight of my concern.
My father leaned toward me slightly. I took a wary step backwards. I could tell from his expression that he was not in a mood to be amenable. Ignoring my interjecting whimpers, he cut apart my appeal cleanly and quickly, as if it were one of the boards in the workshop downstairs. I didn’t understand all of what he was saying, but his conviction and imposing presence were all he needed to convince me.
It appeared reason would not succeed in extracting me from this dilemma, and so I was left with no choice but to yell, and make a break for it.
Unfortunately that, too, was unsuccessful and within minutes I was hoisted, flailing and wailing, out of the house and into the car. It wasn’t long before I was unhappily inside Mrs. Sproate’s exceedingly brown, cavernous house and our station wagon was pulling out of the driveway.
Change of Face
The harsh sun cut through the multi-paned windows, falling across papers and books haphazardly strewn across a collapsing olive painted desk. An old metallic chair creaked dangerously under the inconsiderable weight of an aging academic. The sun was a chef, he thought dismally, and his failing brain was an overcooked appetizer.
Head aching, he clumsily let the pen slip from his fingers and slowly laid his hand against his sweating forehead. Through the fingers he could feel his troubled mind slogging through re-rehearsed facts, unable to assemble the corroboration he sought. The harder he grasped at each flimsy design, the more demented his web of reason became.
Until in one moment, when the sharp clack of the pen contacting the faded rosewood floorboards reached his ears, suddenly nothing meant anything.
He stared blankly across the cramped office at the familiar wall of methodically organized volumes. Their pages once flourished with motivating words of insight and intellect, but now he recognized them only as a dismally coloured collage of futility.
Then, in the brief moment between the click of the pen striking the ground and rolling to strike a chair leg, he turned. Within an instant, the careful, stifling logic of his world was razed then rearranged and reconstructed.
For the first time in almost a day his feet felt the weight of his forgotten body. In one swift motion he leapt forward—knifing through the window in a toothy spray of glistening shards and splintering lattice… into the cruel sun.