A Digital File Cabinet

A place to store things I'd otherwise lose.

[alexfreakinbasa]

Sheep in wolf’s clothing

I am an imposter.

No one here thinks

I’m intelligent and capable.

I believe

My peers question my competency.

There’s no way

I got here based on skill.

Everyone knows that

I am completely useless, and

No one believes that

I can do anything.

It takes effort to reverse a negative mentality.

[alexfreakinbasa]

Mama

Mama, I think I’m happy now.

I ran away to West LA; I think I’m happy now. I’m trying to find myself in all of this mess And I know you’re wishing me the best And mama, I think I’m happy now.

I’m keeping idle hands busy; I think I’m happy now. I’m searching around trying to find my soul Y estoy aprendiendo español And mama, I think I’m happy now.

I saw some old friends; I think I’m happy now. I’m learning to enjoy the company of myself And I’m making sure that I’m eating well And mama, I think I’m happy now.

I’m not sure what tomorrow will be like, but I think I’m happy now. I know you hate to see your boy cry And truth be told, so do I But mama, I think I’m happy now.

So mama, please don’t worry, because I think I’m happy now. I’m putting on a great big smile At least I’m managing a while Because mama, I think I’m happy now.

[alexfreakinbasa]

Six Characters

My love.

Or is that even a sufficient expression to let you know who and what you are to me?

What arrogance have I developed in the past years to believe that six characters can accurately summarize the lifetime of satisfaction I hope you will afford me?

"My love" will never be enough.

How can I realistically share with you the way you shape my world? Even with 1,000 words, I would not be able to describe the perfect picture of a person you are for me.

Perhaps it is because I can not comprehend how such a love can belong to me—how I can justifiably call you "my" love.

Possession usually implies that the possessor did something to acquire the possessed, but I find myself uncertain as to what I have done to afford you.

Were wealth measured in good qualities, you would be royalty and I would be a gravedigger, digging holes in which I would one day sit. It is a magic of quantum machinery that I have somehow minted a coin with which to purchase your attention, because there are plenty of men richer than I.

Darling, through all of my shortcomings and ill devices, you stay with a smile on your face. Your patience and forgiveness is a virtue that heaven envies, and your fairness breaks even fictional mirrors on fictional walls—transcending reality, space, and time. Like the invariance of light, you are the constant good in my life, and no matter how fast I travel, my mass of flaws will keep me relatively behind you.

Because only I am clumsy enough to break a happy moment the way a bulldozer snaps twigs and tears down trees in a tranquil park.

Yet even then, you stay.

And only I am capable of burning down the joyful affections that you have sown, the way a wildfire ravages nature's plentiful bounty.

Yet even then, you stay.

And only I am reckless enough to take this joyride of a love off its carefully paved path, careening into a lake and drowning you with negativity.

Yet even then, you stay.

For reasons I can not explain, you find it in yourself to take me in shambles and reassemble me for the better—planting me firmly in the ground and watering my roots so that we may grow together ever strong, this time bending with the wind.

And even though I have scorched the earth, your love is a Phoenix; I am humbled by its ability to defy destruction.

And when I am without a single breath in my lungs, you resuscitate me with your ceaseless care.

I am your love, which I will never deserve.

Like the blind naivety of Icarus, I edge too close to the sun—but you are always there to catch me with your own wings when I fall. You are truly all-gifted, and all I have is hope that you will not see me as the monster that I know I am. You are my goddess, and I am your loyal subject; I would gladly sacrifice myself to keep you happy and in good health. It is the least I can do to repay you for the things you have so selflessly given me.

As I drive the same roads I have driven for so many years to get to where you are, the music my radio plays is you each time. And as I approach the place my GPS has labeled "home," the address that's listed is always six characters long

My love.

[alexfreakinbasa]

My Hero

The day you came home and told me

In tears that you couldn't save Batman,

I thought you were being euphemistic about your abilities as a lifesaver;

Maybe you were saying you realized that even with all of the teachings, wisdom, and intuition in the world you could possibly ascertain and refine,

You knew that there would be some cases you could not possibly solve.

Like Batman.

See, the thing that many people forget to recognize is that even superheroes bleed.

Even Batman has his weaknesses.

And through all of Bruce Wayne's intellectual capacity and ability to self-diagnose,

He could not possibly anesthetize himself and remove his own liver.

Even Bruce Wayne had a doctor.

But that was not, in fact, the story you would tell.

With a tightened embrace, you told me about a three year old pup who could not subsist,

And as the shoulder of my shirt grew warm, I was reminded of how gentle a soul rested in that busy body.

Standing there in the headlights of your car, I could not help but smile in this moment of tragedy for you—

Not because I am a sadist at heart, but because I knew then and there that you would be the perfect mother to our kids.

It's true, an inference such as this is one that does not come at face value, but the denomination of your love is not only measured in how you hold hands, but in how you use yours to hold others to a higher standard of humanity.

In that moment as you shivered—though not from the cold—I could feel that you were the one who would kiss wounds as our child fell, make sure that there was a note signed "with love" in their lunch box, and perhaps shed a tear on their first day of school. The empathy that you carry in your eyes alone would be enough to save the world

If they would only be so fortunate to see into them the way I do day to day.

Fragile as you are, you are my superhero.

Even Batman would be proud.

[alexfreakinbasa]

I’m throwing a @taylorswift listening party this Thursday for the new album release, and this is the invitation I️ designed! So excited!!! @taylornation

[alexfreakinbasa]

WOW I DONT EVER POST TO THIS THING LIKE THIS BUT THIS IS GOING TO ABSOLUTELY MELT DESPACITO FROM THE CHARTS AND I WANTED TO CALL IT RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW FOR LYYYYFFFFEEEEEE

[alexfreakinbasa]

A Simple Picnic

As I laid out the blanket and opened the picnic basket to survey the food I had brought, I watched Elliot walk out into the thicket of trees and pluck an apple from a low-hanging branch. I removed the insulated drink container from the bag I had packed, and set out the two porcelain mugs I had asked her to bring.

“Hey, can you pour me some of that?” she asked me through a mouthful of the fruit, walking back towards me with a slight swing in her hip. She was wearing a white hoody with a red overcoat on top. Denim jeans hugged her legs, and white canvas shoes that had seen plenty of travel donned her feet.

“Sure,” I willfully obliged. It was a cold, spring afternoon, and the coffee fogged up my glasses as I filled our mugs just before the brim.

“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid,” I said to her as I wiped the condensation from my lenses.

“Do you mind making mine without any milk or sugar?” she asked me.

“I didn’t pack any milk, but I can make it without any cream instead, if that’s alright?” I remarked as I topped off her drink.

“Shut the hell up,” she giggled as she threw the remaining chunk of apple core at me. I ducked it expertly. I handed her the mug of black coffee and added cream and sugar to my own, stirring it rhythmically with a silver spoon. It clinked musically in the quiet of nature.

“How’s Peyton, by the way?” she batted her long eyelashes when she asked this question.

“Great,” I said shortly, watching the swirl of my coffee come to a lull. “Got a new job in the city. Pays well. We’re actually celebrating later tonight,” I elaborated. My thoughts drifted to the taste of vanilla ice cream and the laugh track of a cheesy sitcom—a typical Saturday night at home with Peyton. The house would always smell like artificial pine from the preceding day of cleaning. We would relax and unwind in this fashion, keeping in line with what seemed like an almost regimental schedule.

“That’s great!” Elliot cheered. She brought her mug to her rose-colored lips and took a drink from her coffee.

“Ow! Fuck!” she shouted, her impatience was rewarded with a scorched tongue.

“You dumbass,” I teased her, taking a cautious sip from my own mug. “Ow! Fuck!” I burned my mouth, too.

“What was that?” she taunted through a raised eyebrow.

“Shut the hell up!”

Elliot grinned and looked off into the thicket. The apples would be going out of season, soon. The light that broke the trees caught her auburn hair and made it look like a fiery halo enveloped her head. She took another drink of her coffee. She didn’t burn herself that time.

“How was your trip to Yosemite?” I asked her, snapping out of my trance-like stare.

“It was great! You’d be amazed at how cathartic it is being surrounded by all the pine and cedar trees. The air smells so right—the way air ought to smell, you know?”

“Yeah, totally!” I agreed enthusiastically. She had the greatest adventures. I’d always wanted to go on one with her. Just listening to her tell stories of them made my heart race. Occasionally, Peyton and I would go on a tandem bike ride through a local park. We’d feed the ducks and pick flowers for each other. It was a peaceful life. But we never really adventured.

“You should come with Cameron and me some day,” she offered as she dropped her gaze and sifted through the picnic basket.

“Yeah, totally,” I agreed again. I plucked a blade of grass from the perimeter of the blanket and rolled it between my thumb and forefinger.

“How is Cameron, by the way?” I asked her.

“Cameron is great,” she looked up at me and didn’t blink, “our five-year anniversary is this week, in fact.”

“That’s great,” I smiled.

I thought about when Peyton and I had shared our five-year anniversary. We had reservations at our usual restaurant—some almost-fancy place downtown. The waiter confused us for siblings. We laughed about it later that night in bed.

“Are you doing anything special?” I asked her.

“I dunno. I never plan that far ahead.”

“I like your style, kid.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

We pulled our sandwiches from the wicker basket and ate them in silence for a moment. A breeze came through and blew a clutch of leaves between us, pulling up the east corner of the blanket, but we paid it no mind. Elliot brushed the hair from her face and giggled at me. Or maybe she just giggled because it was a funny thing to happen; I don’t know. I chuckled sympathetically.

“It’s getting late,” Elliot remarked.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Elliot’s golden halo had disappeared as the sun set behind the trees. Her neatly curled hair was no longer neat as a consequence of the wind. She looked like the wily spirit I knew her to be. Elliot never did anything by the book. I was reminded of a time when I went over to her place to help her build some furniture, and she had thrown away the instruction manual on purpose. She told me that it would be more fun that way. It was.

That same year, Peyton surprised me with a hand-crafted, cherry-stained coffee table meant for our living room on Valentine’s Day. I used to watch TV and read books on our couch in there, but the coffee table that we’d had for years was too short to hold anything within comfortable reach. I used to hold my mugs until they got cold because it was more convenient. Peyton spent weeks in the studio putting the whole table together. It was a gorgeous, thoughtful gift, and it was the only piece of furniture that we took with us when we moved to accommodate Peyton’s new job.

“Come on; help me pack up,” Elliot said to me as the sky grew darker. The fireflies had come out to play, and I realized that I’d never seen another person by such a light source before. It was like looking through a curtain of Christmas lights; I could see them reflected in Elliot’s hazel eyes as they danced around carelessly. She hastily tossed things into the picnic basket and I heard a mug shatter. She laughed; so did I.

“So what are you going to do when you get home?” I asked her as we walked back to our cars.

“I dunno. That’s a long time from now,” she replied.

“Don’t you only live an hour away?”

She shrugged, “Eh, I guess I just don’t think about it much.”

“Do you think about anything much?”

Elliot bit her lip and stared at her shoes, “Sure I do.”

We got to our cars and loaded our respective belongings—she took the blanket; I took the wicker basket.

“Will I see you again, soon?” I asked her.

“Maybe. If you’re lucky,” she unlocked her car.

“When will that be?”

“In your dreams, probably,” she winked, got in her car, and turned the ignition. I rolled my eyes and shook my head. She rolled down her window to say her last goodbyes.

“Tell Peyton I said hello.”

“Tell Cam I said the same.” Did anybody ever really follow through with that when they were told to do so?

“Oh, and Emily, before you go…” She said to me. I hadn’t taken my keys out of my pocket, yet.

“Yes?”

She rolled up her window, mouthed a few words that I didn’t catch, smiled, and drove away.

[alexfreakinbasa]

The River in Egypt

I realized something recently. I don't know when it started, And maybe it's not a discernible point in time, But it occurred to me that you are not the love of my life. Maybe it happened when I noticed that people you've never met started referring to you by first name. Maybe it happened when I noticed that we don't really have much in common. Maybe it happened when I noticed that the songs that got stuck in my head weren't songs I put there. Maybe I should clarify: you are not JUST the love of my life. You ARE my life. And as trite as that may sound— While it would cause Nicholas Sparks's eyes to detach and allow him to examine his Cerabellum — I can not come to any better a conclusion than this. There is no possible rationale into which I can reason myself that would justify Why Carla at work knows what your favorite color is. There is no way to explain how we don't have "much" in common; we have A LOT in common. There is no way to reconcile why I love to recite the lyrics to Speak Now. All I know is that the music in my playlist paints a portrait of you. Whenever a song begins to play, and I say "oh I love this song!" It's usually not because the song is extremely profound in the way that hip, pretentious artists like myself claim to enjoy. It's not because I think John Mayer is the paradigm for all guitarists. Because while I think he's very good, I know of people much better—you've probably never heard of them. When I say "I love this song," I really mean to say that I love "you." I love that every next song in my shuffled library actually comes from yours. I love that people enjoy being around the two of us, If only in that they are glad I can FINALLY talk about something BESIDES you. I love that people think we're crazy for dancing when they just can't hear the music. I have made it my whole life thus far dealing in interesting people. One of my greatest fears is being bored, And you are like a nightlight to ward away the monstrous complacency of life. If a master glass blower's final masterpiece is analogous to the culmination of our experiences by the time we say goodnight, Then we are two volumes of sand being melted together right now. Except maybe glass is too fragile and plausibly finite an existence to be comparable; A mighty blacksmith would forge a more accurate story of our love. I think that life can be unfair sometimes. Unfair to six billion, nine hundred ninety nine million, nine hundred ninety nine thousand, and nine hundred ninety nine people. But not this one. Not to me. Because even if life were to take my limbs and gouge out my eyes and steal away my tongue, I would still have the unfair fortune of being able to hear your voice. There is no way to possibly illustrate, dictate, or demonstrate how much I love you. Because something so vast is unquantifiable, like counting the leaves on a tree, Or drops of water in the sea. But it exists, and it can been seen, and it can be felt. It defies calculation and nomenclature, But it is infinite and I call it by your name. Like the river in Egypt, it never ends—it just grows into something bigger than before. And I have taken everything I have onto this boat I sail.

[alexfreakinbasa]

Blasphemy.

You scare the hell out of me. And I don’t mean that just in the conventional sense of the phrase, for even though I do not identify of a faith, I try my best to make it to the heaven that you will some day rule.  But in the conventional sense, it is not you that scares me, but the infinite way in which I am enamored with you, and the finite nature of our acquaintance.  You scare the hell out of me.

You scare the hell out of me, because I am not only willing to compromise my own moralistic ethic for you, but I would gladly relinquish it completely if it meant you would never turn away. Things I would adamantly weigh as true prior to our entanglement have softened from granite to clay; no, I do not claim to believe in a God, but I am wed to a Goddess. However, ask it of me, and I will kneel beside you. Ask it of me, and I will take your name. Ask it of me, and I will shed all of my loyalties and pledge allegiance to whatever flag it is you fly.  What was once at the center of my identity is now origami in your hands; I don’t care what shape I am to become, because whatever you make me will be beautiful.

You scare the hell out of me.  Because I once knew who I was and would ever be, but you could call me by any other name as long as you still saw me a rose. Please love me. Don’t love me not. I promise that if you grip me, you will find no thorns because I’ve no desire to defend myself from you; I have evolved from a spiteful, belligerent soul to a man without wax. 

Can I fail the test of time and retake it unrelentingly?  Can the academia of life submit me to retention so that I may never graduate this lifetime to whatever may be next? Can I offer my soul to the devil in exchange for a cloak by which to sneak past Saint Peter; time is not long enough to satiate my desire to be with you, and I am not worthy of where it is you will come to be. But if I could ensure our reacquaintance in Paradise by repenting and never sinning again, fit me a pair of wings. 

You scare the hell out of me.

[alexfreakinbasa]

I have a bit of poetry about love on this this thing. Here is my inspiration for those poems, and her name is Jordan. She’s the person that introduced me to Taylor Swift fandom and she’s the reason why I even try to be a better person day by day. This is us having a gang of fun at Taylor’s Santa Clara show yesterday. We were lucky enough to bring along a former student of mine—Christina Vo—who is maybe the biggest Swiftie I know. It was her first concert, and she said she lost her voice several times during the show. I know Taylor will never see a thing like this, but I feel compelled to thank her for putting on such a fun evening for us, bringing Jordan and me closer together, and being such a compassionate, kind-hearted influence for good kids like Christina everywhere. 

Until next tour, taylorswift. —Best, Alex

[alexfreakinbasa]

Malus Domestica 1

“Write a story that’s been told before in a way that it hasn’t been told.”

1Knowledge is a beautiful thing. 2Do you know what the foundation of knowledge is? Curiosity. 3It is the undying need to question things that are, things that aren't, and things that might be if given the correct set of variables and the catalyst of circumstance. 4It would be abhorrently inaccurate of me to say to you that knowledge is a casual endeavor of mine. 5I seek to establish knowledge as the God to which people pay homage. 6It is for this reason that I am so disdainful of a former friend of mine, and perhaps why he is so disdainful of me.

7They say that the most difficult job anyone can ever face is parenthood. 8As a parent, the responsibility – and perhaps burden, to some – is in your hands to shape and cradle the most fragile and important object in the world: the mind of a child. 9Children are born knowledge-seekers. They are brought forth into this world looking for the answers to all of life's questions, 10and to whom do they look when they are unable to ascertain the answers themselves? Their parents. 11Parents are the architects of weapons of mass destruction, and they are the ambassadors of peace. 12Parents are gods to their children. 13Some time ago, this old friend of mine built his two children from nothing to be the perfect little specimens of life. 14Through them, he believed he could set the paradigm by which all humanity should be judged. 15However, there was one thing that he constantly denied them; it was knowledge.

16He promised them anything – everything, really – as long as they partook not in the pursuit of knowledge that he did not provide. 17And, to his credit, he was a man of his word; 18they wished for life, and he gave them life; 19they wished for drink, he quenched their thirst; 20they wished for beauties unparalleled by any natural born thing, and he gave them paradise. 21But, as you can imagine, his children grew older, and 22the charming aesthetics and superficial splendors soon became insufficient to satiate their maturing desires. 23The poignant aromas of their youth no longer excited them. 24This is when the youngest of the two came to me.

25I gave her what her father adamantly refused her: 26I gave her rationality. 27I gave her inquiry, logic, skepticism, and – most importantly – 28I answered her curiosity. 29I had never before seen someone so infatuated with the pursuit of knowledge. 30Almost immediately, she beckoned for her older brother to accompany her in this newfound source of joy. 31And he did. 32Together, they explored the world 33and accomplished feats sizable to building mountains out of chalk dust. 34It was a funny thing watching the tensile strength of their father's teachings give way to the wealth of knowledge I provided them. 35And to be frank, they weren't the only ones to feel excited. 36It pleased me to see such young minds enveloped in the grace of exploration.

37Unfortunately, in time, the siblings let slip to their father that they had been consuming my teachings. 38Distraught, and feeling betrayed, he disowned them, 39and took back the lavish gifts he had afforded them before. 40He was exponentially more punitive towards his daughter, 41since it was she who sought me in the first place. 42This devastated me on a number of levels, 43because I was the catalyst in the equation that resulted in their newfound misery. 44They had become my children as well, and 45I loved them as such. 46But, as they say, to every cloud is a silver lining. 47After being disconnected from their father, I heard them ask, “now what?”

[alexfreakinbasa]

/r/writingprompts: A traveling crew of space explorers discover the largest organism ever.

"Where is it?"

"I... I don't know, sir. Sensors say that it's right in front of us, but I don't see anything, either."

"Are you sure that thing even works? What does it even do?"

"Well, I admit that everything is still technically based in theory, but I tested it in small-scale, and it worked perfectly every time! Point the handheld device at any inanimate object on this vessel, and it'll yield null results; point it at either of us, and it tells you that it's sensing life."

"So is the big one sensing us? Do you even have it calibrated correctly?"

"Well, yes, and yes, respectively: I can't just have it filter out specific life forms, selectively. But I do have our biosignatures on record, so when I look through the output data, I just ignore the information that shows our signatures."

"So why can't we see what the ship's sensor is detecting?"

"I... I don't know... But the weird thing about it is that it doesn't only say that the organism is in front of us, but also behind us... and below us, and above us, and to our left and to our right...."

"The damn thing is broken. Fix it."

"It's not broken!"

"So tell me why we're looking at a giant nothing, huh?! How are we supposed to report back with, 'hey guys, we went into space with the billions of dollars you spent on this expedition, looked for life, and found a big black nothing, but Anderson's sensor was supposedly working'!"

"Just give me a second to think, damn it!"

"You had YEARS. We've been out here for YEARS. The last life we saw is tucked away in that crumpled piece of tissue paper you tossed in the trash compactor."

"Just give me a-- wait... Hey, look at this for a second."

"I'm not looking at your fucking nerd equipment."

"Just humor me, then, will you?"

"What."

"Okay, when I look at the data small-scale, I get a lot more information than just 'this thing is alive.' I get pulse readings, heat levels, electrochemical activity, data that cells are dying and dividing every second... It's a bunch of smaller things that the sensor detects, which I then interpret as life."

"God, SNOOZE, Anderson!"

"WELL. If you look at the large scale data..."

"...Are you saying--"

"Yeah, I'm saying..."

Jones stood up from the sensor control panel and walked to the cockpit where he had a full view of the void. Standing motionless with his hands behind his back, thumbs crossed, and palms overlapping, he breathed to the rhythm of his pulse.

"Do you think our blood is sentient?"

"I know that we are."

[alexfreakinbasa]

/r/writingprompts: A genie gets increasingly annoyed and frustrated when his new master won't wish for anything and instead just wants to talk.

http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/245ygg/wp_a_genie_gets_increasingly_annoyed_and/ch3zyhe

Son of a bitch...

Mort heard the door of Lucy's bedroom slam shut followed by the cacophonous skitter of a cell phone across a wooden veneer desktop.

God damn...here we go...just fucking make a...

"...Behold, mortal. On this, the twenty-seventh day of the fourth month of the two-thousand and fourteenth year of the common era, I, Mort the genie have --" "Yeah, yeah, do you really have to say that garbage every time?" The left corner of Mort's mouth crawled as far to the side as it could.

"Yes, Lucy. These are the rules. Don't you want to know the rules to having a--"

"Yeah, but aren't rules for people?"

"Do you not consider me a person?"

"You know what I mean!"

"No, rules are for those who are not in charge."

"Whatever. Anyway, guess what happened today!"

"Gosh. I don't know. What." Mort patronized her. Thoughts were not sacred to genies. It had been this way since young Adolf found a lamp and wished for an increased affinity for persuasion. It became necessary for genies to be endowed with the ability to see inside their Holders' heads, lest they inadvertently grant someone the power to exceed the power of Magic.

"Jeanine kissed Shirley!! ON. THE. LIPS." Lucy squealed.

"And?"

"THEY'RE BOTH GIRLS!" Lucy shouted, obviously taken aback by Mort's lack of interest.

"...and?"

"That's not how it's supposed to work."

"Says who?"

"Says...well, everyone!" Lucy scoffed. She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, taking a brief moment to survey Mort's body from head to toe and then back again.

"Since when does a majority constitute a jurisdiction over two individuals' feelings for each other?"

"You don't think that's weird?" Lucy's brow furrowed. Her mouth hung agape as if she were having trouble swallowing the words that Mort was saying.

"It doesn't matter what I think. It matters what they think. I am not them."

"But it's not natural!"

"Neither are clothes."

Lucy glanced at her closet. The door was squeezed shut, but there were a few coats hanging from the doorknob by means of several, very cleverly interlaced, hangers. She had so many clothes that they were bleeding out into her living space.

"I wish I could make you see how weird it is, though..."

Mort had to stop himself from exclaiming in joy. Your wish is my command, you obnoxious bitch, Mort thought. While she was still looking away, he snapped his fingers, his eyes glowed momentarily (as if it mattered, anyway), and Lucy's wish was granted.

"Lucy, I see where you're coming from. Really, I do. You don't understand it because it's not something you're used to seeing. You don't understand it because your parents never told you that it was a possibility. It feels wrong to you because you feel that way about a boy and could never feel that way about a girl. It feels uncomfortable to you because you don't like the thought of another girl being attracted to you."

"Well... yeah... And it's just... weird..."

"Do you like Teddy Bears?"

"I don't understand..."

"I don't need you to. Just answer me."

"Well, yeah, but like... What's that got to do with--"

"I hate them. They're a waste of space, money, and resources, and their uses are almost none."

"But they're so cuddly and cute and they make me happy when I'm sad! How can you not love them?!" Lucy whined in protest.

"No genies like Teddy Bears."

"Well then all genies are dummies!"

"Is that so?"

"What in the world are you talking about?"

"Are you serious right now?"

"Teddy Bears are the best!"

"Son of a... Okay, look, kid. In this instance, you're Jeanine, and your bear is Shirley; I am people like you."

"I'm not going to kiss my Teddy Bear..."

"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!"

"Don't yell at me!"

Mort closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. All he wanted to was to be free of this ignorant little child. He couldn't stand day after day of this pointless chatter. His job was to grant wishes, and grant more wishes. It wasn't in his contract to have to listen to spoiled little brats complain about things that didn't affect them in any way.

"Lucy... What I was saying is that two girls kissing each other may not make sense to you, but it's not you to whom it needs make sense."

"Well why not? It grosses me out! Doesn't that count as affecting me?"

"Teddy Bears gross me out."

"I wish I understood why you were making that stupid point..."

Checkmate, you little shit! Mort snapped, and Lucy's eyes glowed.

"Ohh... Oh my. Mort, I understand. Thank you."

Mort's smirk deteriorated into a look of confusion. Thank you? Most people just ask for more wishes. I've never been thanked before...

"Mort, you're right. It's not my place to judge. They are human beings with their own set of emotions -- likes, dislikes, desires, disgusts -- just like me. Goodness, without you, I would have never realized my fault! Mort, you're the best. I love you."

Lucy hugged Mort around his midsection. Mort blinked a few times, unsure of how to handle this sort of companionship. He rested his hand on top of Lucy's head.

Genies normally bear witness to their Holders succumbing to their most primal desires. When given three wishes, most people seek only to benefit themselves in a tangible manner, or a manner that will lead to them benefitting in a tangible asset. Little Lucy accidentally bettered herself in a way that just bettered her as a person. Mort wondered if that's why Genies were created to begin with, only to have their powers perverted and abused by the greed of mankind. Mort serviced many Holders in his several millennia on Earth, but not until Lucy had he found that he cared for one. He almost wished that she had three wishes again.

"I love you too, Lucy."

Lucy smiled and looked up at Mort, and then to his lamp on the desk next to them.

"Mort, I wish I had met you sooner."

[alexfreakinbasa]

/r/writingprompts: You live on a world full of immortal beings. For the first time in the history of the world's existence, someone has died.

http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/246wlu/wp_you_live_on_a_world_full_of_immortal_beings/ch4dr5g

The smell was sickening. It was a putrid, lingering stench that permeated every floor of the apartment complex. Neighbors filed out of the building in mass hordes, clutching their noses while tears welled up in their eyes. The hazmat crew arrived with respirators and a wood ax -- six of them in all. Each took a floor and went through, knocking on doors and evacuating any sleeping residents, trying to locate the cause of the rotten odor.

"Hello? Is anyone in there? We seem to have a gas leak in the building, and we're evacuating all tenants until we've found and corrected the issue."

Even through his respirator, Guy felt like he was choking down hunks of century-old, spoiled pork. After a dozen failed attempts at making contact with the resident in apartment number 665, Guy raised his ax and hacked down into the doorframe where the knob met the wall. After he skillfully cropped out the shape of the lockset, he drove a strong foot through the wood, allowing him to enter the room with only a graceful stumble. The odor was unbearable, now. He checked his respirator mask to see if the seal was broken; it wasn't.

"Hello! Anybody here?!" Guy shouted. He put his hand to his face reflexively, realizing that he could not stifle the smell any better with his hand than his mask could by itself.

He rushed toward the single bedroom of the complex to find signs of the tenant that lived in the apartment. He opened the door, and his vision blurred because his sense of smelled was instantly overwhelmed; he tore off his mask to vomit on the floor, replacing it as soon as he stopped retching.

Guy looked at the bed, which was soaked in excrement, followed a blueish leg up towards an inert torso, and then settled on an empty face whose mouth was agape.

"Miss? I'm going to need you to... uhhhnnngg... w-wake u-up right n-n-now... Your apartment is no l-longer habitable..."

Guy inched towards the still body. He kept beckoning to her; no response.

"Miss?" Guy grabbed her by the shoulder. His fingers sank into her flesh and liquid ran down her shirt. Guy gasped; he retracted immediately. Her head bobbed to the side and rolled neatly off her pillow onto the carpet by Guy's feet. Guy fell to the floor in panic, and immediately forced himself up and out of the apartment. He tore off his mask as soon as he exited the petri dish of an apartment, shouting incoherencies as he ran down the hall, looking for any living person to help him understand what he just saw. Just as Guy began fumbling down the stairs, the apartment door directly adjacent to apartment number 665 opened up. A man in a white suit stepped out, adjusted a furious red tie, smirked, and followed Guy down the hall, down the stairs, and out of the building.

[alexfreakinbasa]

/r/writingprompts: A man knows exactly when he is going to die. Today is the day it happens.

http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2481ue/wp_a_man_knows_exactly_when_he_will_die_today_is/ch4izhb

Dear Journal,

I am writing to you today because it is what I have done every day since the day we met. My love, I tell you this, there has never been a day where I haven't thought about you constantly when we were apart. The intimacy between us is so permanent and loving, and I hope that I have left an equally great mark on you as to match the limitless depths by which you have allowed me to invest my entire being. It is a shame that I am not as you are. Sweetheart, we have seen miles together. I truly enjoyed taking you to worlds you've never seen, and introducing you to people you'd never have met. It is with ultimate regret that after all this time, I must part with you so suddenly.

Journal, with a heavy heart, I admit that I am little more than an ounce of what I was when we first met. My strength is fading; the once opaque memories I have left with you are becoming increasingly transparent. I fear that the longer I am with you, the sooner I will die, but even if I were to live forever, I would refuse if it meant that I could not touch you ever again. I love you. And I hope to leave every bit of me that I have left with you so that even when I am gone, you may soak in the fondness that I have for you.

Love, I am sorry to say that this is goodbye. I feel the life draining from my body. And although there is an emptiness washing over me, please take comfort in that every second we've been together has been the best second of my life. I promised you that I would be with you until the day that I died, right past the penultimate sentence. With all the love I have left, and more sadness than the world can fathom, I reluctantly inform you that this is it.

Love — as eternally as you shall live, Pen.

[alexfreakinbasa]

Pride

They tell me to be humble. They tell me that "to be boastful is a sin against God," As if God himself didn't already have enough on His plate. Nevertheless, consider me a heretic, For I reject humility, and choose rather to flaunt my undying greatness:

You.

How can it be asked of me that I should be reserved, When in you, I have all that is good in the world? Love, I tell you this, where rich men peacock themselves with clothes, jewels, and cars, Bragging about the number of zeros that proceed their ones, I will have none of that place, For you are the one that accompanies my zero. And while men with forked tongues charm women, Carving notches into their bedposts After each forgetful night, I envy them not in the slightest, For each night with you is more memorable than the words I am unable to find. And though such despicable men fall in love each time they look into a mirror, I must confess that I am guilty of a similar vanity:

When I am with you, gazing into a mirror as you try on six different coats in seven different shops, I find myself always enamored with the picture in that mirror.  Whereas I do not have lavish garments, golden trinkets, or a six-cylinder engine,  I pride myself in wearing your hand around mine, The moonlight glimmering off of the band around your finger On our way to dinner in my tiny, four-cylinder, blue hatchback. And though I make barely five figures yearly, And have just a few to my name, I pride myself in being wealthier than any corporation As long as I have you.

Mountaintops are not high enough from which to shout my adoration Of you, And even in the face of God himself, I would claim to have something exponentially more divine In you. If damnation should be the fate of vanity, then may I burn eternally in Hell, For the burning love I feel for you is a paradise that makes Heaven Look like purgatory. And I would gladly brave the shores of Styx if I could just tell Lucifer how greatly I pity him That he should never have the chance to know your splendor.

They could stand me in front of a firing squad, No blanks in their rifles, And command me to renounce my ego. With an arrogant smile, I would beckon them to shoot, For to renounce my ego would be to lie about my love For you.

They tell me to be humble. But that is only because they are jealous, For only I am able to brag.

[alexfreakinbasa]

My Name Is Mort

 My name is Mort. No, it's not short for “Mortimer,” either; it's just Mort. I guess that's what happens when your father goes by “Lucy,” and your mother isn't really around anymore. Actually, that's not entirely true. Mom is around – just not around here very often. I suppose I can't really blame her; she does have a round-the-clock job, and while you can call her job “seasonal,” it's not because she only works during one of the seasons; she works literally all of them. Being Mother Nature can be a tough job, and it's not her fault for not being more directly involved with my life, but being raised solely by someone as – ahem – judgmental and demanding as my father can be quite the taxing burden. You see, I've always wanted to follow in my mother's line of work. She creates such beauty every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every... Well, you get the point.

I think I hear my dad's footsteps just down the hall. “Dad, why is it so important that I follow in your footsteps?” I groan at him as he walks in the room. He sighs heavily as he moves around me and sits at his desk.

“Mort, for the last time, it is imperative for the synchronicity of nature that you find your place in this profession.” Behind a desk placard that reads “Mr. Lucifer,” my father holds his head in one hand with his eyes closed and his brow furrowed.

“I know it's not the most glamorous job, son, and I know that you've always been more in favor of the... Well, aesthetic nature of... Nature.” He contorts his face in discomfort as he stammers through this sentence. He's never been an advocate of my creativity. Typical dad stuff, you know. He shuffles some papers, turns a pen on his desk 30 degrees clockwise, and sighs again.

“But you have to understand that after several millennia of doing both the processing and the reaping, I just can't do it all anymore. The recent influx of admittances in just the latest few centuries has become exponentially strenuous, so I need someone I can count on to do some of the work for me. And, mind you, it's the easy part that I'm offering.”

I recline deeper into my already morose slump on the oddly comfortable swivel chair in front of his desk, as I look outwards into the never-ending abyss of Hell and try to pick out some tortured soul who can do the job in my stead – Dahmer? … No, too tunnel-visioned. … Bundy? No, he was such a liar. … Gacy? Jeez, how could I even consider that clown!

During my ceaseless gaze, a single feather drifts by the window.

“Why can't Gabriel do it?” I beg of my father.

“You know very well that Gabriel's more of a mailman, and don't you even mention Michael. You know he's Heaven's bouncer, and nothing more.” Apparently, my complaints have become predictable, as my father doesn't even bother to look up from his filing. He swivels around and opens a silver filing cabinet labeled “CIRCLE VII,” and from the cabinet's drawer come a thousand ungodly, agonized screams as my father quickly crams the paperwork he's holding into it, and then closes the drawer with even more rapidity.

“Just, please... Your mother and I have tried our best to raise you to understand your role in the world. It has to be you because I can't trust anyone else. It's in your blood. Try to embrace the noble deed that you have been assigned. Without you helping me, the world will come to chaos. And no one really wants a repeat of the Big Man's whole '40-day flood' thing, you know?”

Ugh, I knew this was a bad idea. I'm getting out of here. Turning the brass, demon-headed doorknob, I step out of my father's air-conditioned office and into the hallway. I hate the décor of this place. I especially hate its plain, red wallpaper; it's as if the whole building is just waiting to assimilate me into its droll collective conscience, and I am already walking through its circulatory system.

“You can't have me!” I'm not shouting at anyone specific. Anyone that will listen, really.

The elevator button lights up with a creepy green hue as I press it, and stepping into the elevator places me at the mercy of my father's music collection, which is not merciful. … “... I went down, down, down, and the flames went higher. …”

Dear God, Dad.

The lobby floor could not have come sooner. Getting out of the aural deathtrap that is my father's elevator, I make my way past concierge and its ever-growing procession of new residents. I hate this place. I hate my dad. I need to talk to someone who understands me for who I am. I wonder if my cousin is home; Ole Lukoje gives good advice from time to time, even if it can be a bit vague.

Leaving the building that is my father's place of work, I climb upon the pale horse that my parents got me four years ago on my 116th birthday (I know; no Ferrari, right?). I take one last depressed look at the giant building that is my premature headstone, and kick my horse to get him going. We ride up, past the river Styx, through the vestibule of the complacent ones, and right out the front door. All I can think about is the sadistic comedy that is my father's welcoming sign, carved right into the foundation of the Earth: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” The ring of fire.

I never really realized how far away Lukoje lives until just now. I think I left Dad's place around, what, 8pm? Well, it's the crack of dawn, now, and he's just getting home from work. He pulls night shifts, you see; it's a dreadful concept to me, but hey – to each his own. It was a bit of a ride to Denmark – not far from where he was born – but he seems to have his life figured out, and I love coming up to visit when I get a chance.

“Lukoje!” I walk into the tastefully decorated, interestingly metropolitan front room and greet my cousin with open arms.

“Woah woah woah, petite Mort, you know that you can't just waltz into my house unannounced.”

Aw, shit. Maybe I should have knocked. …

“... Without sharing a cold drink with me! How are you doing, cousin? And please, Lukoje is what they called me in grade school: it's Sandman now.”

Oh, Lukoje – I mean Sandman – and his twisted sense of humor! I almost thought he was going to kick the hell out of me. I watch him walk across the room to his liquor bar, from which he pours us two glasses of fireball whiskey. I take it gladly. Although it's night time, the white walls of his house contrasted against the dark furniture in the room create a very bright and awake atmosphere, while simultaneously allowing for a place of relaxation. Lukoje sure knows how to spend his money.

“Cousin, I came here to ask your opinion: as you know, my father – your uncle – is adamant about me going into the family business. He wants me to take on the role of 'ferry of the dead,' so to speak, and, while I understand the importance of the role, I was never very fond of the idea. It just seems so boring.” I continue to relinquish my every thought and reservation about the ordeal while my cousin patiently listens, his hands clasped together in front of his mouth, and his eyes intently focused on me as I speak, as though pensive about every single detail I offer. As I finish my story, he sits up, straightens out his shirt by tugging on its bottom, leans forward, and says to me:

“Sleep on it.” Wait, sleep on it?

“I don't understand.” Maybe I need to wait for the punch line?

“What's not to understand? Go home, and sleep on it.” Oh, so it's not a joke?

“I'm not sure I'm gathering fully...”

“Look, petite Mort-”

“Will you stop calling me that?!”

Once, when we were kids, I spent the night at Ole Lukoje's house, whereupon I experienced a nocturnal emission. Perfectly healthy. But he never let me live it down. Years later, Lukoje studied French in high school, and couldn't contain himself when he learned the phrase la petite mort. It's been my official nickname ever since.

“Look, Mort. Whenever I have a problem that I can't solve right then and there, I sleep on it. When I wake up, I have a fresh perspective and possibly even the solution to my problem,” my cousin continues after seeing that I am actually in a fairly severe state of duress. Didn't I tell you? Vague advice, right? But it's the best I'm getting for the moment. I thank him, down my drink, and head back to my house in Hell. Maybe I do just need some sleep.

I step into my empty house and find that my room has never looked less familiar. When did I hang these posters of Gandhi? Why are my clothes all over the floor? Whose stupid, unfinished short story is sitting in an unstapled pile on my desk? Whatever. I collapse onto my bed and I try to sleep, but I can't. And, in fact, I don't. I look at my little black alarm clock and see that it's been hours since I got home, and I'm still laying here: thinking. You know what? Screw it, I'm a grown man, and nobody is going to be in charge of my life except for me! It's late but nobody is home, so I quickly pack my things and ride out of Hell and into the plane of the living. Surely, if I'm not around, Dad will have to find someone else to cover the job. I'll return home when the whole drama behind my refusal to comply becomes irrelevant. That would take, what? A few days? A week, tops? Whatever. As long as I keep riding, I'll be too far away to matter.

It's been about an hour, but it feels like I've been riding through this dense wood for decades. I'm pretty sure I'm lost. Maybe I should turn out here. Ah, finally, a clearing! Jeez, it's foggy. But what a lovely meadow! It would look even lovelier without the fog, I bet.

"Wait, fog?" God, what am I, talking to my horse? I must be losing my sanity from all this stress. … But I swear it was as clear as college-level allegory not more than a minute ago. Where am I? Through the thick fog, I think I can vaguely make out a few oompa-loompa-sized granite tablets protruding from the grass. I see a large, stone room to my left. …

Wait, I recognize that type of structure... Is that a tomb?!

Another.

It is! Suddenly, I find myself sailing ass-over-head through the air. I land on my back with a graceful thud, and – tracing my trajectory backwards several yards – I see that my horse has just experienced a rather clumsy hurdling disaster. I get up and notice a figure of a man laying motionless in the undergrowth. Great, now I'm guilty of first-degree murder. Maybe I do belong in Hell. …

“S-sir...?” I stammer bravely, “Are you okay?”

“Grrruuuuuhhhhhhhhhggggllllll...” comes the response. Oh good, he's alive. … sort of.

“Excuse me, sir? Can I help you out? Maybe get you a glass of water?” Stupid me. …. Where am I going to get a glass of water in the middle of a cemetery?

“Brrraaaay...” He manages.

“I'm sorry, what now?” Maybe he's telling me his name is Brayden? I don't know.

“Hey, look, uh, Mr. Brayden, is it? I'm really sorry about running you over with my horse, but I've got places –” Oh, good, he's getting up.

“BRAAAAAAAAIIIIINNNNNSSSSS!” He lurches at me from his mangled position on the ground. Ah.

My new friend is easy enough to dodge. But where is my damned horse?! Whatever. Good riddance. I'd wanted a Ferrari anyway. Reassessing my situation, I notice a few things, the fog is gone, I was right about this place being very pretty without it, and holy shit, there are zombies everywhere!

You know, running from this undead mob makes me think of Dad. Isn't it his job to bring all of the dead through to the afterlife?

Oh, wait... Good ol' Dad's words are ringing like funeral bells, now: “Without you helping me, the world will come to chaos.” Why are people on my dad's side of the family always so vague when they tell me things? Why can't they just say exactly what they mean, like Mother does?

“Mort! Take this!” I hear from above me.

“Yeah, that's exactly the kind of directness I mean!” I shout in relief, looking up in time to catch a cold, black, scythe with a giant, silvery blade. Etched into the metal are the words “I looked, and behold, a pale horse! And sat atop it was Death, and Hell came with him. -Revelations 6:8.” Oh! It's actually mother! She blows me a kiss, and takes off faster than she flew in. She's always had a way of making things better for me in the most mysterious of ways. Focusing on my special delivery, I admire the craftsmanship. It's really sturdy. And hot! Like, actually burning hot! Like, why are flames coming out from it?!

Black flames erupt violently from the scythe, but I see them move at a snail's pace; the zombies look frozen a few yards away from me. Like serpents, the flames wrap around my outstretched arm, leaving charred and flaking flesh in their wake as they slither towards my torso. As the flesh crumbles off of my frame, nothing but death-white bone is left behind. The reflection of my face in the blade of my scythe melts away and reveals a ghastly skull with coal-red eyes. I let out a dimension-shattering scream; this misery isn't pain – it's pain's dominatrix. I long for the luxury of pain. My clothes wither away in darkened wisps, and the smoke from the carnage binds itself to my new body, conjured in a long, hooded, black robe. But as the flames subside and I regain my composure, I feel something different. … I feel new. One final look in the silver confirms my new identity: no body – just bones.

I look fucking scary.

My senses reestablish their former condition, and I hear groaning and shuffling behind me. I look in my hand and wonder: is this to be my legacy? What about art? I sigh. It doesn't look like I have a choice right now. I clutch the scythe in two hands, which makes a clinking sound as my bony fingers wrap around the shaft, and I slay each and every zombie, decapitating them as if I were swinging a chainsaw through a field of daisies. With each figure I take down, five more appear from behind me, latching on and gnawing at where my flesh used to be. Their teeth are met with nothing but emptiness and death. Well, death again. The entire scene is a coagulated bloodbath of limbs and heads, and each kill brings me a disturbingly unparalleled joy; I even cackle at the sight of all the carnage. What have I become? Am I a monster, now?

“You are a necessary monster, Mort.” After severing the last few heads, I look over my shoulder to see my father stepping out of a tomb.

“Was this your doing?” I demanded. Where am I getting this newfound courage? I never talk to Dad this way! It's incredible. Another figure steps out of the tomb.

“No. It was ours, Mort.” Mother! I'm so confused! But I feel so elated! I'm not sure if I'm happy to see her, or if I'm still high on adrenaline after the massacre.

“We needed to show you how important you are to the world, son,” she says to me. My father punts a head past a mausoleum. It lands with a graceful thud somewhere in the distance.

“What am I?” Another demand. He looks at me and grins.

“You're hired.”