Sunday, August 30, 2015

More Like a Middle Name

Flatulence.  It may well have been his middle name.  Ornell was actually his middle name, but practically speaking it didn't fit.  John Ornell McKinley.  Ornell sounded like someone with a low tooth count but even lower IQ.  And that wasn't this Ornell at all.  He was in the top five percent of his pre-med class at the University of Washington.  He was on a fast track to neurosurgery.  He was captain of the lacrosse team.  But, for all intents and purposes, he was flatulence, the living embodiment of an underactive digestive system and for that he truly was sorry.
He couldn't count on even ten hands how many times he committed some sort of social faux pas, typically involving the passing of gas.  In the elevator, at a dinner party, in class, meeting his future mother-in-law.  They were all there.  Almost every conceivable social setting and Ornell had crapped them all.
He considered moving to some obscure culture that perceived farting as normal public behavior, but he could find none.  He tried changing his diet, but nothing seemed to work.  Then it came to him, the answer of all mother answers.  This one trick would be the cure all.
It didn't work.  So he moved to Bolivia.

Monday, August 24, 2015

Headache

Larry awoke that morning to the realization that during the night his head had shrunk to half of its normal size.  He was concerned.
During breakfast, as he ate his frosted flakes, he also realized that breakfast was taking twice as long.  He hadn't thought of that.
The slightest breeze took away his breath.  The slightest bit of flatulence, the one instance in the elevator in particular, made him gag. No one else seemed to notice, but he felt like his head was still getting smaller.
He got home at five o'clock, ate a meager dinner of Mac and cheese and went to bed, with the hope he would be better in the morning.

Sunday, August 9, 2015

Downstream

The letter could not have arrived on a more innocuous day.  Like clockwork, Philip lumbered out of bed thirty seconds after his alarm went off, finished his breakfast at exactly 6:22 am, enough time to brush his teeth and let his car warm up before pulling out of the driveway at exactly 6:30 am.
The drive to work was uneventful.  It was another typical day in the office.  Lunch was boring and the drive home matched the drive there.  So when Philip arrived home to a handwritten letter in his mailbox, with a postal date of the following week, he was more than slightly intrigued. He carefully broke the glue seal.
A slight accent of ozone touched the air as Philip pulled the single sheet of paper from the envelope.  A shiver climbed down his spine.  Unfolding the finely creased paper, Philip gazed upon the delicate, hand written letter.  "Who hand writes letters anymore?" Philip spoke to himself.
"Dear sir," the letter began, "we have never met before, at least in your time, but more on that later.  You won't believe what I am about to tell you.  I know this is the case, but at this time, that won't really matter.  I am writing to you from one week in the future and I need your help. Because I am inextricably bound to the stream of time, my actions in my time are too little, too late.  But you, being one week behind me, can make all the difference in the world, literally.  If you are willing to at least hear me out, tear this letter in half and bury it to the immediate left of your mailbox.  Thank you, Carl."
Philip sat for a moment, letter in hand, elbows on his knees, and thought.  "It can't hurt, I guess," he said out loud.  With those words spoken, Philip rose from his dining room table, unceremoniously tore the letter in half, the long way, just to be creative, and left his front door, for the sidewalk.  A couple of scoops from the sandy soil that surrounded his mailbox and Philip dropped in the letter, now in two pieces.  He casually shoved the dirt back into the hole, being careful not to tip dirt into his shoes, and lumbered back into the house.  He washed his hands and had just reached for the TV remote when a knock sounded on his door.  The sound jarred him, a little more than usual.  Glancing out the peephole, Philip saw Bob, his neighbor. He opened the door.
"Hey Phil," Bob blurted, "I found this on the sidewalk in front of my place.  It's got your name on it. The mailman must have dropped it, lazy bastard.  Those mailmen get paid way too much, if you ask me.  Anyway, like I said, it's a letter with your name on it.  Talk to you later."  Bob spun on his heel and strolled back down the sidewalk toward his own home before Philip could get a single word in.  Philip managed to drop a quick thank you and Bob responded with a thumb jab into the air.  Philip closed his front door.
Philip quickly sat down on the couch, noticing the eerily familiar look to the second letter he now held on his hands.  The same kind of envelope, the same next week post mark.  Phillip's mouth was dry.  He slid his finger though the pasted opening and again smelling the same hint of ozone, removed another single page.  The letter read thus, "Philip, thank you so much for your leap of faith.  This will turn out to be the most interesting series of events you will have ever encountered.  I have the first of a few tasks to ask of you, if you would like to continue.  Please go to Abdul's Mini Mart, on the corner of Walnut and First St. and purchase sixteen blueberry slurpies.  Please do so at exactly 7:27 pm tonight.  When you purchase them, say to the man behind the counter, "Allah who ahoob".  After you leave the store, you can do as you please with the slurpies."
Philip slid out of his car, upon his return from the mini-mart.  A deep "brain freeze" headache enveloped his brain.  He believed it was the third slurpie that did it. Approaching his front door, he spied another envelope, stuck in-between the door and the door jamb.  It too was faced with the same printed address and next week post date.  A sticky note was attached to the front. "Hey Phil, looks like that mailman has an issue hanging onto your mail.  I found this one lying on the sidewalk, half way down the block on my way home from your place.  If I were you I would call the post office and complain.  Cheers, Bob."  Philip sat down on his front step and opened the third envelope.
It was at lunch the next day that Philip followed the instructions of the third letter.  "Go to Slicky T's pizzeria and purchase three vegetarian pizzas.  Take them to the construction workers down on Walnut St. between 7th and 8th St. When you give them, as a gift, say the same message, "Allah who ahoob."
The fourth letter was waiting for him in his mailbox upon his return home, after another boring day at the office.  He made a point of not mentioning his latest adventures to anyone.  He didn't hardly believe it himself.  All of his "tasks" seemed completely harmless, really just acts of kindness.  So upon opening the fourth letter, his last task, as the letter informed him, was the one that made him slightly uneasy.  "Go to Good Samaritan Hospice and ask for Mohammed Ghazal.  Mohammed is an elderly man, now blind and bedridden.  When you are taken to his room, speak to him the same message.  You can instigate any dialogue you like with him, but make it pleasant, by all means.  Deliver the message, wish him a good day and a long life and then go on your way.  Thank you, Carl."
Philip received no more letters from that point onward.  For five days afterward, he continued to look for messages, with the slight hope of seeing something.  But he received nothing.  One evening exactly seven days after his initial mystery letter, a news report peaked his interest.  The NSA had been tracking a series of communiqué coming from Saudi Arabia to Norfolk, VA, Philip's hometown.  But suddenly the messages stopped.  The NSA viewed this as a successful interception and abortion of a possible terrorist attack. 


Friday, August 7, 2015

Downturn

Overheard in an elevator, "Don't mind him and his lack of sense humor.  He's Dutch."