My mum was cutting these plants down outside last night. I was helping her by lifting them up. She was using a little electric cutter thing. Sadly, Sunny jumped (more like hopped slightly, you know, with the obesity and all) by my dear mummy and she stumbled. The blade went through my hand and cut it right off. It was already bleeding profusely when we got inside and called 911. When the ambulance got there, they typed my blood and realized I am an extremely, almost freakishly rare blood type. They couldn’t get any of this blood soon enough, so I bleed out and died. My parents are pretty sad. You should send them money. The End.

 

 

It was a cold day in December when it happened. Snow fell all around and covered the ground in a blanket of deep, velvety white. I stood on the street corner and waited for a taxi. People rushed by with their parcels in hand. The sky was grey and gloomy, but the sun peeking through ever-so-often, catching the tops of trees ablaze with golden light, made it seem almost hopeful as well. A taxi finally pulled to the curb, cab number 56. I’d ridden in this car many times. I put my bag in seat beside me. The driver was a tired looking, middle-aged man. Thinning brown hair and a small, neat rim of facial hair framed his face. I gave him my destination and he pulled away from the curb without a word. I watched the city pass by me in the window. People walked about through their lives right outside, but unaware of my watching them, like fish in a large aquarium. I saw a young woman walking down the street, one hand filled with bags from numerous, high-end shops, the other with a cell phone. Everything about her was oddly shiny. She seemed happy, but perhaps I was wrong. Intricate facades have always been a popular thing, especially among the rich. 

Suddenly, my cab halted to a stop. We were slowly redirected around a car accident. An angry CEO type was screaming at his cell phone as he stood over his totaled sports car. A young pregnant girl was talking to a cop. I assumed she was the owner of the other car, a cheapo lemon of a thing. A small child in an extremely puffy snowsuit was whining and pulling at her leg. She ignored him. I noticed there was a child with the other man too. She was a teenage girl, scowling at the situation. She was a good scowler, well practiced it seemed. She yelled something at her father. He didn’t notice.

            When we finally pulled away from the accident, my driver had still yet to say a word. Actually, he never spoke to me when I rode in his cab. That day I decided to initiate small talk, “Those cars were pretty messed up huh? I bet their insurance is going to soar after this.”

            He didn’t speak, but looked up at me through the rear view mirror and grunted. I felt I had made a good start. We were getting close to my destination, the train station. In thirty minutes, I would be well on my way to a cross country train extravaganza. Magical scenery and friendly service awaited me, or at least that’s what my brochure said. When the ride was over, it was up to you to get home on your own. I planned to stay at that terminal point. This was my last ride in cab 56.

            I decided to speak again,” You know, when I get on this train, I’m not coming back. I think we should talk to each other, like back and forth, not just me, just once.”

            He didn’t respond. We pulled up to the entrance of the train station. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. A tear rolled down my cheek.” Please,” my voice quivered at first, but then it reached a full-on, heartbroken wail. “Just say anything! Please, Daddy…”

            He became ridged and pointed to the meter. I pulled out my wallet and odds and ends tumbled from my purse. I wiped a tear from my face as I gathered his money. I shoved it at him and exited the taxi with my baggage. Standing on the curb, I stared at him for a moment through his open window.

            “Goodbye, Stephanie,” came his voice in a hard tone. He didn’t even look at me. The cab pulled away and I went directly into the station’s bathroom and cried. After that, I fixed my makeup and got ready to depart.

            The train service was indeed friendly and the scenery lovely. I made friends with a woman sitting near me. When she asked me about my family, I told her the same lie I’d been telling people for years, “My mother lives in Oregon, but my dad died when I was sixteen.” I received much sympathy from my new friend.  

           

 

            That cold December day was the last time I ever saw my father. One day, twelve years later, I was flipping through the newspaper and found his obituary. His years as a taxi driver were discussed in great detail. Apparently, Janice Tillman, a frequent passenger of his stated in a teary interview,” He always made time to talk to you, no matter who you were. Always.”

 

Too bad I’m not anyone, at least not to him.

I have Vietnamese Pride.

 

 

 

P.S. FIRE

The Tragic Tale of Gerald McKissack

 

Once there was a woman named Susan McKissack. She was pregnant with a little boy. She named this little bundle of joy Gerald before he was even born. One dark, stormy night, Susan went into delivery. Everything seemed to be going well at first, but sadly, tragedy struck. All the lights in the hospital went off for exactly 4 minutes. There was mass hysteria and panic. When the lights came back on, it seemed Susan was missing her baby. Little Gerald had been kidnapped be the Chinese mob. He was carried away to South Africa were he was sold to an American family who didn’t ask questions. The baby was given the name Chase Edmondson. Meanwhile, poor Susan was heartbroken by the lose of her child. She started an all girl band called the Hottie Squ@d and they toured around Europe for a few years. Her sadness turned out such classics as “Where My Gerald At” and “Gerald, He Was My Baby But is Away in the Sky”. Sadly, songs like “Gerald Went Down to the Barrio” and “Rockin’ Christm@s Tree Remix 3000” were not hits. When she got back to America, teaching called to her. She tired to put her lost child to the back of her mind. Then, one fateful day, young Gerald/Chase walked into her room to get learneded. She had a feeling the child was her own, but she didn’t want to ruin his life by letting him know she was his true mother. Out of fear that she would end up favoring him over the other students, Susan made a vow to pretend to hate him. This is where things stand to this day. The End.

 

(this story is completely true)

You have to love the color names of paint. I know I do. Here are some very special ones…Dolphin Dance, L.A. Heat, Precious Dew Drop, Quiet Refuge,

Exotic Port, Cubicle Blues, Teresa’s True Color, Pansy Potpourri, Movie Time, Mashed Potatoes, Ahoy! Blue, Wavy Navy, Lady Carlyle, Chipper Tint, Fair Farmington, and Noah’s Ark. To think someone gets paid to come up with those. You can’t even tell what color most of them are. Hey! What should we call this light purple? How about Grape Expectations! Why, that's just dumb enough to work! We live in a disturbed world.  

 

P.S. I’m getting parts of my room painted Draconia, otherwise known as black.

It still works...so yay...I guess.

Dear Kids,

I might not be able to use this space later. I might have to create another one. I took the pictures and might put them up again later on this or another one. So yeah.

We shall defeat the humans! We shall!

 

RIP Scrapie

Pictures of me have been added. So there.