Being Accurate

Frank tried to adjust his left hand.  It was beginning to cramp up just as his right hand had done just five minutes prior.  Hanging from the small tree root eighty five feet above a collection of shale made the idea of a drop very unappealing.

The details of just how Frank arrived in such a predicament are too mundane and actually irrelevant for this story.  What is important is his response.

"Frank, what happened?" Jerry called from three feet above him.  "That's really not important right now," Frank responded, "I'm in a bit of a fix though."  

A slight pause was heard from three feet above Frank's head.  "So what do you want me to do," Frank called again.  "Nothing," Frank responded.  "There is nothing you can do."  Puzzled, Frank spoke again.  "But dude, I've got that 25 foot climbing rope in the back of the truck.  I could have you out of there in no time."  Frank's response was almost a bark.  "No!  I said.  There is nothing you can do."

Jerry sat at the edge of the cliff and pulled out his phone.  "Do you want me to call someone?  It looks like I have two bars."  "No," Frank responded again in exasperation, "now stop taking to me about this."  Jerry stood up and scratched his head.   He started to talk again, but caught himself.

After a minute, he sat down again on his haunches and peered over the edge.  "You can't save me, Jerry," Frank grunted.  "Only God can do that.  It would be an insult to suggest otherwise."

The last thing Jerry heard was a sudden whoop, a combination of a holler and a prayer and then silence.  Jerry returned to his truck and called 911.

The Quota

Evelyn sat down in class and to her great dismay; she had chosen a seat behind Norman.  Fifteen minutes into class the inevitable, but entirely predictable event occurred.  There was a pop, a brief, high-pitched whistle and a pungent, burnt smell.  Norman had exceeded his thought quota.  Norman raised his hand and asked to be excused.

Turtles and Bryl-cream

Thomas returned the turtle to its tank and sat back down.  The turtle of current discussion was named Carl and had a habit of biting Thomas' left hand ring finger at any opportunity.  Thomas, as was the habit as of late, applied Neosporin to his finger and muttered to himself.  His mother had called while he was playing with Carl and left a rather vitriolic message on his voice mail.  Something about "those damned deer and her vegetable garden."  Thomas had advised her directly not to put that turnip garden in the back yard.  Living in the woods provides too much exposure to wildlife, he told her.  The raccoons and her garbage cans were bad enough, but now that the deer were eating her turnips, she had reached her limit.  She was talking about buying a gun.

Thomas put his clothes back on and walked out to the mailbox at the edge of the sidewalk.  Normally, the houses on his street positioned the mailboxes on the side of their homes, near the front door, but Thomas didn't like a stranger approaching his front door so often.  In fact, Thomas didn't like strangers at all, or really anyone for that matter.  His present dislike for humanity could probably be attributed to the large quantities of turnips consumed by his mother during his prenatal days, but Thomas couldn't prove it.  He had every intention of writing a thesis on this very topic as soon as he had some extra time.

Opening his mailbox, Thomas extracted exactly four pieces of junk, bulk mailers, a letter from his high school reunion organizing committee and a small manila envelope containing what he hoped would set the rest of his day at ease.  Dropping all but the manila envelope on the dining room table, Thomas sat down and proceeded to open the envelope.  He gently removed the glossy covered magazine from its drab, tan straight jacket and slid his hand over the cover.  A shudder fluttered down his spine and he thoroughly enjoyed the cover.  It was his newest issue of Farmer's Weekly and Thomas was hooked.  He spent the rest of the afternoon devouring its contents.

After a dinner of turtle soup, Thomas went to bed.