A Purse Dream

There once was a thief who was extremely bad at thieving. Thus, he was extremely relieved when, on a dreary Thursday in March, he found a extremely unattended purse left on the bench at a bus-stop. It was your typical ugly handbag, stitched from so many colors that an observer could not recall any colors it wasn't.

"Stop!" cried a woman’s voice. The thief, who now had the purse in his lap and was in the process of finding his way into it, stood to escape."Don't do it!" cried the voice again. He spotted a woman some way down the road, standing and waving her arms as if flagging down an airplane. She was so short and so slight that she could almost be mistaken for a child. He turned to run, confident that he could outrun someone of her stature.

Suddenly something slammed into him with almost enough force to knock him down. He stumbled and found the same woman clinging to him, trying various grips and holds to encourage his body to the ground. He marveled, momentarily, at the speed with which she had covered the distance. He swung around and threw her off. She was fast but not strong. She landed on the sidewalk, and he dashed across the street, ignoring the traffic that honked at him.

He slid into an alley, dived through an open door into the empty back room of a small shop, and crouched in the shadows.  A moment later, he heard impossibly rapid footsteps approach, pass, and fade away just as quickly.

He sighed and slid down to sit in the comforting refuse of the abandoned room. He examined the purse at his leisure. It was just as ugly now as before, and he found that the reason he could not open it earlier was a lock holding the clasp together. He smashed this using a heavy piece of metal he found on the trash-strewn floor.

When he opened the purse, a hand reached out.

Screaming at an octave he had not known he could achieve, he dropped the purse. The hand felt the floor, as if it were merely someone reaching through a doorway instead of a disembodied hand flailing about on the ground. Then a head followed it out of the purse, which was attached to a chest, which was attached to another arm, some legs, and some feet.

A tiny man now stood up beside the purse, picking his teeth as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. He wore simple robes and a tiny hat all of the same wide variety of colors as the purse. He examined his surroundings, the room, the door to the alley, and the thief standing slack-jawed in the corner. He lifted up the purse and shoved his head back into it. “It’s safe to come out everyone. We’ve been freed!” Cheers resonated from within the purse, loud enough to belong to at least three dozen people.

And sure enough, one by one, more tiny people scrambled and scratched their way through the purse’s opening and marched out of the room. The thief counted fifty, and then he gave up counting. They were all dressed the same, with the little hats and strangely colored clothing.

Once the flow coming out of the purse finally ceased, the first tiny man picked up the purse and marched up to the thief. “Thanks, pal.” He slapped the purse into the thief’s hands.

“What are you?” marveled the thief.

“Memories, buddy. We are all of her memories.” He bowed and left.

The thief threw the purse into a dumpster and ran home. He went back to school and then became a much better banker than he ever was a thief. One day, an extremely quick woman snatched his briefcase and escaped, but she found nothing inside but papers and a sandwich.

A Bedtime Story About Murder (part two)

"I met her in a construction site."
"Very romantic."
"And you would know?"
"I know lots about romantic!"
"Sure you do. Young people always think they know what romance is. I met her in the site because she was the contractor making a building for my boss.”
"What kind of building?"
"Uh... you know, I can't remember."
"You're not a good liar, Grandpa!"
"There never was a good liar in this whole world."
"I caught you fibbing, so tell me what kind of building."
"Ah. I think I remember now. It was casino."
"What's that?"
"Do you want me to tell the story, or do you want me to tell you what a casino is?"
"Hm..."
"She was exquisite in her hard hat and jeans. Commanding. Powerful. Dangerous. And she had these... ah well, she was very beautiful let's just say that shall we?"
"And then you loved each other. Yada yada yada."
"Yes. It didn't start as love, but it bloomed in time. But that was all the time we got. Within the year, she was dead."
"Dead? But why? Did you kill her?"
"In a way. It was my fault she died. You see, my boss liked me a lot, so he was going to give me a very important job in the business. But this guy I worked with, Vinny, he thought the job was owed to him."
"So he killed her?"
"So he poisoned my food. And by chance, she ate it before I did. She died in my arms."
"Wow. That's so sad!"
"Yes. I know."
"But it wasn't really your fault grandpa. You loved her. You didn't mean for her to die."
"That's true.”
"You didn't kill her, that Vinny guy did."
"Also true."
"So!”
"So what?"
"So this was the story of how YOU killed someone. But her dying wasn't you fault!"
"Oh, I see you are confused. No, she's not the one I killed. She's not the one I was referring to anyway."
"Then who was it?"
"Well, the next week, I cut the break lines of Vinny's sports car. He drove through a red light and got plastered across the side of a semi truck."
"Wow!"
"And that, dear child, is why you should always wear your seat-belt."
"That was a great story Grandpa. Tell me another!"
"No no, the story is over, and it's time for sleep."
"I'm not tired! Have you ever killed anyone else?"
"Lay down like a good girl."
"Okay, how about love! Have you ever loved anyone else? It's okay; you can start with 'once upon a time!' What about casinos? Tell me... or I'll cut your break line!"
"Goodnight, child."
"Nuts."

A Bedtime Story About Murder (told in two parts)

"Grandpa, have you ever killed anyone?"

"Hundreds of people!"

"No grandpa, I'm serious!"

"Now you stop worrying about such things and go to sleep. You've got your water right there and—”

"I'm not worried! I just want to know."

"Why would you want to know about that?"

"It's not to show off to my friends or something. I just want to know... to know."

"Little girls these days, asking about killings and murderings. What's the world coming to?"

"Please Grandpa?"

"Eh..."

"You're my grandpa! You have to do what I say!"

"Alright. I don't know why I'm doing this. You'd better not tell anyone else about it though."

"Why not?

"Or else I'll kill ya, that's what I'll do."

"So what's the story?"

"Excitable little sprout, aren’t ya? Just like your mother. Alright here we go."

"Was it with a gun? Did you shoot 'em?"

"Are you interrupting already?"

"Sorry."

"Once upon a time, a long time ago—"

"No Grandpa, don't start it that way."

"What's wrong with 'once upon a time?' It's a classic."

"Yeah, for stories! This is real life."

"Ah. Okay, as you wish. Now get comfortable and I'll start."

"Okay."

"Okay. Once upon a time—"

"Grandpa!"

"I'm sorry! I can't help it. A lifetime of storytelling is asserting itself!"

"Okay fine whatever. Just start the story."

"I thought you said it was real life, not a story?"

"Right. Start the real life story."

"Okay, once upon a time, a long time ago, I killed a man. But in order to understand why, we must go back in time a bit more to the day I met a woman."

"Did you kiss this lady?"

"As a matter of fact yes, how did you know?"

"Can we skip the love and go straight to—"

"No no. If you want to hear the story of how I killed a man, you have to suffer through the tale of how I kissed a woman."

"Fine. Whatever."

"Can I carry on now?"

"Yes. Carry on."

The Annoying Security Guard: A True Story from Cairo

(This story is my revenge on a specific security guard in Cairo who was really annoying and conceited.  Most security guards in Cairo were very nice to me.)

A long metal gate blocked access from the road to the bus station. The gate had been painted green nearly five years prior and was now colored green-brown hybrid that completely failed to draw the eye. For this reason, four and half vehicles had run into it in the last month. 

Beside this mangled gate there was a guard hut. It was simply a large metal cylinder stood upright with one side cut away. Inside there was barely enough room for one plastic lawn chair. On this chair there sat a security guard. He sniffed as he watched the cars drive and the pedestrians walk. When a car wanted to enter, he was meant to get up from his chair and drag the mangled gate open. When a person wanted to enter, he was meant to get up from his chair and check their ID as they walked by. 

On a normal day, he did neither of these tasks.

Today was a very normal day.

He leaned back in his chair, thrust his legs apart, and sniffed again. Maids in long dresses and simple hijabs meandered slowly past, avoiding his eyes. Women with pants and long hair sped by shouting into their mobile phones. Men in slacks and dress shirts marched through, nodding and muttering greetings. A delivery truck stopped at the gate and honked. The driver eventually gave up and opened it himself. 

Time passed. The security guard sniffed and checked his watch. His shift was nearly over. He let his arm fall limply back into his lap.

At nearly 3:45, a man approached that woke the security guard from his routine and, for the first time in hours, he was motivated him to stand up. The man could best be described as "long." He sported long legs, long hair, long arms, and even a long chin. His clothing attempted but completely failed to blend him in with the other passers-by. All these details were inconsequential however, because this man also had pasty white skin. 

The security guard lifted himself from the chair, and his legs seemed to remember their old purpose. He took a step forward and held out his palm to communicate that the man with white skin should stop. Once eye contact was made, he frowned to give an impression of seriousness, and also because it takes twice as many muscles to smile as to frown, and he did not want to strain himself.

“I.D.” was all the guard said. This was the first thing he had said in hours.

“What?” The white man said.

“I.D.”

“What I.D.?”

In order to clear up the confusion, the security guard thought it best to repeat himself in a clearer way, “I.D.”

“I live here.”

“What?” The guard’s ears had not quite woken up yet.

“I don’t know what you want from me, but I live here, I walk through this gate every day.”

The guard was only flummoxed for a moment. He knew how to handle this. Time to put his foot down. “You need an I.D.”

“I don’t have one. No one has ever asked me for one. And like fifteen people have walked through the gate without showing an I.D. since this conversation started.”

Ah, a tough guy huh. Well, the guard knew how to handle this kind of person: “You need an I.D.”

The white man stood there, looking at him, waiting for him to act. This pleased the guard; the complete dissipation of this citizen’s forward momentum, literally and figuratively, meant that the guard’s authority had been recognized. He stood for a moment, looking right to left and pursing his lips, just to be sure everything was at it should be. Then, with all the suave he could muster, he looked away and jerked his head towards the gate. The message was clear: I’ll let you off the hook this time, so go before I change my mind.

He returned to the guard hut and slowly lowered his weight into the lawn chair with the practiced focus of a man who has truly mastered the art if sitting. He leaned back and sniffed with comfort and superiority. Another job well done.

Anabas the Cat, An Introduction

Once upon a time in old Egypt, there was a city that the people named "Aswan." In this city was a small house. In, on, and alongside this house lived a cat who named herself Anabas. Anabas had piercing yellow eyes and fur so black that it shimmered blue on the edges in the sunlight.

There were several alleys, sheds, and houses that were hers, but this house in particular she made her center of operations. The other owner of this house, a human woman, objected to her choice. The woman thought that cats brought bad luck, so she shoo'ed her away with a broom whenever she could. She had a tiny baby human that slept in the back room, so she was especially worried about bad luck.

She lived her life in my particular way. She slept on the roof in the night and on the windowsill in the heat of the midday. In the morning and evening, when the sun burned orange on the horizon, she inspected her houses and alleys and said hello to the cats who lived nearby.

She caught mice and birds to eat, and sometimes she took them to her favorite house and left them on the doorstep as goodwill offerings. The woman didn't seem to know what to do with a plumb mouse or juicy starling, and Anabas felt sorry for this poor human who did not know more than a young kitten. So, she kept leaving these gifts for the woman; surely eventually she would learn how to handle food properly.

Anabas did not just sleep and hunt in her territory. She also protected it. When any dog, cat, or other hunter approached her area, she would call to them, "Hello fellow hunter. What is your business on my ground?" If the creature said they were hungry and hunting, she would let them continue, but watch them from the roofs. If they had some other reason, she would chase them off, unless it was a good one.

There were other creatures that she never gave leave to pass through her territory. Jackals, scorpions, and human ghosts were always unwelcome. She would hiss and spit at them until they left. If they did not run, she had her teeth and her claws, and she was so fast with them that even even the ghosts were hurt.

Thus, all the humans who lived within her territory were safe from these things, even from ghosts. But none of the humans seemed to fully appreciate this, especially the woman with the baby. But Anabas knew who she was, and she was who she was, and that is enough for any cat.

A Story About A Rock That No Rock Will Ever Know Because Rocks Don't Have Brains

"Rock" is a word used for so many hard somethings on planet earth. It is hardly a properly descriptive word for so varied a subject. Two "rocks" might be made up of entirely different substances and have an entirely different history of being something else in the past, squashed down by tectonic forces to become solid. But humans refer to all these wonderful and varied objects by one word. Human language, it would seem, has very little to do with the object in question and much more to do with describing things as they are useful to humans. Thus, hard, somewhat heavy things are all lumped under the same vague category "rocks."

One particular rock amongst the billions of hard, somewhat heavy things on planet earth had broken off from a massive hunk of limestone nearly two thousand years prior. Since then, it had moved only slightly away from the shear rock cliff from which it had broken off. It sat at the base, where the hard stuff met the soft stuff humans call "sand.”

Rocks, no matter what they are made of, cannot move on their own or even think. They have no appendages and no brain and no moving parts at all. If you break a rock in half, it becomes two rocks, and no one died in the process. So why focus on this one rock, the one who broke off from the massive hunk of limestone and then barely moved for two thousand years? The answer is simple. Unbeknownst to the rock, since, as I explained before, rocks cannot beknownst anything at all, three thousand years ago, a well-paid human had applied a chisel to one surface of the that massive hunk of limestone. He had applied a hammer to the chisel and sculpted some intricate shapes that humans call “words” on the surface of the limestone. A thousand years later, our friend the rock broke off from the limestone, taking some of the words with it on its surface.

Two thousand years after that, a man found it, our chunk of limestone, and saw the words written on its side. He took it from its home at the base of the cliff and carried it away. After that, it passed between a dozen greedy sweaty human hands, always in exchange for some paper stuff that humans call “money.” One greedy sweaty human kept the rock in his house, hidden from the world, but he died, and the things he had piled up around himself in that house were all given away.

The rock was given to a museum, and they put it in an exhibit. Thousands of humans walked by, looked at it, and held their breath, thinking of the things it had seen, the ancient humans who had touched it, the message they had left behind. Somehow, the rock became something more than a hard, somewhat heavy thing in the eyes of humans. They still named it “rock,” but also named it “history” and “art.” The rock did not know what it was before or after its gained these new names and became worth money and was placed in a museum. Names only exist inside human brains, kept secret from everyone else and passed between them like wind across leaves. To the rocks and sand and paper, a rock just is, even with intricate shapes chiseled on it, just like you and I just are, black or white, male or female, dead or alive. Humans don’t think about that, because then what would be the difference between them and a rock?

I

just another burst of

something somesuch in my brain

flying along branches between trees between forests

that reach out and touch each other

psychology

somewhere inside me

in a huge, untouchable, unending place

consuming lives

I am like flying a plane

with sounds and words and smells and bodies and memories and people and places and genes and ideas and the subconscious confidence that I am somehow distinct

each taking hold of the controls in their own way

where are we going?

where are you taking me?

what if I don't want to go with you?

no one answers

it echoes inside

in that big, big place inside me

is anyone there?

This One Is Long and There's a Wizard In It

A man walked into a bar.

It was an extremely ordinary bar. The kind of bar that certain ordinary people come to specifically because it is ordinary. No one was ever loud, no one was ever drunk, no one ever got into fights, and, most importantly, no one ever did anything strange. Ordinary people came in, had an ordinary beverage, and left again to continue having an ordinary day. But the man who walked in on the day of the fire was not what the bar's regulars, or almost anyone else, would consider ordinary.

He was nearly a head taller than the tallest man they had ever seen. Instead of slacks and collared shirt, like any ordinary man would wear, he was draped in a thick robe that reached all the way to his toes and had uncountable layers and folds in which clinked innumerable trinkets and tools. His head was also strange. His face bore a stately and refined expression, but his eyes opened wide and wild. His hair had been wound into a braid longer than the brashest woman of the town would dare to grow her's. He smelled of stone and ash.

Every eye seated at a table or at the bar followed the bizarre stranger as he marched to where the bartender washed a glass. Every ear listened as his spoke in a raspy but authoritative voice.

"Is this the tavern in which the Seven Fists of the Dire Dragon's Bane are meeting?"

"We don't want no trouble here sir." The bartender blurted, wide-eyed, still wiping the same glass even though it was clean. The rest of the room nodded, making low "mmhmm" sounds to show their support.

The stranger raised an eyebrow. "Your desires are no concern of mine, dishwasher. Answer my question."

The bartender, who in his disquiet had not heard the large man's request, stammered, "Your question sir?"

"My question. Answer it. Quickly. I cannot be late."

"I might not have heard proper what you was—"

"The Seven Fists of the Dire Dragon's Bane. Is this where they are meeting?"

"Well I can't say as I would know if there was—that is to say—I can't say I've heard of any six punches of... of—"

"—seven. Seven fists of the—Look here, cup wiper." The man put his hands on the bar and leaned forward. "I do not wish to be in the presence of you or your wide-eyed ilk for any significant length of time." He motioned to the customers, none of which had taken a sip of their drinks since he entered. "So if you could point me in the direction of your private meeting rooms, I would become so agreeable that I might not cause you significant bodily harm."

The bartender, who, unlike most bartenders, had never been threatened or even mildly reprimanded, responded in the most authoritative voice he could muster, "I don't know about any ilk, mister, but we don't want to be in your presence neither. So you can just take your trouble-making someplace where its wanted."

The troublemaker's eyes narrowed. "Are you attempting to reprimand me, tavern rat?"

"I—I ain't no rat. And—and this ain't no tavern."

"No." The stranger turned and took a few slow, deliberate steps towards the exit. "I suppose not." He stopped. "This is actually a coop." He turned again to face the bar again. "And you know what that makes you, dish wiper?" He grinned wider than anyone watching thought humanly possible. "A chicken! A chicken for the roasting!"

At that, he stretched out his hand towards the bartender. From it issued a white-hot ball of flame that screamed as it hurled towards its target. However, the bartender had used the last of his courage to declare that he was not a rat, and so he had already curled up in a ball behind the bar. Thus, the fireball smashed instead into the shelves behind that bar, upon which sat rows and rows of liqueur. They exploded.

Glass and burning liqueur were thrown throughout the bar. Several slower customers found themselves set alight and immediately began running in no particular direction and screaming. The quicker customers, who were on hands and knees under the tables, yelled advice to the screaming men, or yelled to each other that they should crawl to safety before this situation got any more un-ordinary.

A sound started low, but soon overtook the din. It was like a scream, only deeper, and continuously rising in pitch. As it rose, louder and louder, higher and higher, until all the yelling in the room ceased as the customers searched for the source. The burning men had all ripped off their shirts or found water to put out their flames by this point.

The sound continued to rise. It was the stranger who was screaming, still standing where he had been before. He was bent forward with his hands covering his face. Blood was dripping from between his fingers. His scream continued to rise until it reached an inhuman pitch and volume.

The man removed his hands from his face. His mouth hung open wide, issuing the scream. His face contorted with hatred. His left eye burned with malice. His right eye had a chunk of liqueur bottle wedged into it. Blood poured from this wound and down his face.

Without taking a breath, his scream transformed into words: "CHICKENS FOR THE ROASTING!"

He stretched out his hands and pillars of flame issued forth and consumed the room. He turned in every direction, screaming of chickens and of roasting over the din of the men crying of fire and of madness. In moments, he had transformed the bar into a pit of hell, with fire consuming every flammable surface and blackening everything else.

The customers scurried away through windows and doors, their clothing licked by the flames. They stopped once they were a good distance away to turn and watch the ceiling of their ordinary bar dissolve in the intense fire. The bizarre man who had walked into the bar was not observed walking out of it. He seemed to have evaporated in the course of his own madness.

Months later, the bar was open again. But it was not the same bar.

The walls were the same walls, since they were made of stone and had only been blackened. The roof and the tables were new. The clientele were very different, and very numerous. "The Burnt Bar" they called it. You could still smell the flames that the mad mage had created, and this drew a large crop of new customers who were intrigued by the unique and bizarre. They all wanted to smell the flames, gossip about the event, and hear the story from the scarred, but famous and wealthy, bartender. He had seen it all with his own eyes. He exaggerated some details, especially his own courage, but always began the tale accurately:

"A man walked into a bar..."

The Great Turnip Defense

Hundreds of turnips rained upon General Herbert's troops from the battlements above.

Just that morning he had decided that the siege of this little castle should be over. This decision was partly motivated by tactics, but mostly he had grown bored of sieging and wanted to have a go at attacking once more. He had ordered all his troops to converge on the castle with siege ladders and a particularly impressive battering ram. Surely the soldiers inside had starved by now.

They hadn't. From the look of things, they had food to spare.

Round, red, and about the size of a young girl's fist, the turnips poured from the parapets, machicolations, murder holes, and arrow loops. The men, confused, raised their shields, but then lowered them as they saw the vegetables piling up at their feet. The turnips were much too light to cause damage, especially considering the shiny steel helmets worn by each of General Herbert’s finely dressed soldiers.

From his horse a half-mile away, General Herbert smiled. He knew those helmets had been a good idea. He squinted up at the castles defenders. He could make out their rough leather armor and squat copper helmets. How unseemly. He had known from the beginning of this siege that his victory was certain. How could anyone win a battle in such silly-looking armor?

A few of his men tripped, as the ground below the walls was now mostly covered in turnips. Seeing this, the general ordered all his reserve troops to rush in and finish the whole thing off quickly. It was nearly lunchtime. Just as he did this, however, he noticed that a figure had appeared on the highest turret of the tallest tower of the castle. He at once recognized the long white beard, unfashionably soiled red cloak, and gnarled wooden staff of Merlin. That thrice damned ugly bent old rabble-rouser had been in the castle all along? Or maybe he had snuck in somehow, with magic or something?

General Herbert opened his mouth to give a clever order to his lieutenants that would undo his aged nemesis forever, but all his lieutenants had just charged at the castle with the rest of reserves. Besides, he realized darkly, he had no idea what to tell them to do anyway. Before he could think of anything else, Merlin raised his staff over his head and cried out in an impossibly loud voice for all to hear, “nunc praemium rapa!”

A sound like a thunderclap. A shudder like an earthquake. Billowing clouds of dust like a god had sneezed upon the earth. The entire attacking army in their shining armor was swallowed in uncountable explosions all around the castle.

The general’s horse rose up on its hind legs, casting him off like unwanted luggage. He scrambled to his feet to see that the horse was gone, and one of his lieutenants was approaching on horseback, bleeding horribly. The younger man fell off his steed at the general’s feet. “The turnips!” he gasped as he coughed blood all over the general’s shining leather boots, “The turnips exploded beneath us like gunpowder! All is lost!” Those were his last words.

General Herbert stood transfixed for nearly an hour. When the smoke cleared, there remained nothing but bodies, bits of red vegetable, and the cheers from within the castle. “Merlin! Merlin! Merlin!” they chanted. Save for the general, all the besiegers were dead.

General Herbert returned to his king without a castle, without an army, and without an explanation. He never spoke a word to anyone about what had happened, even after he was arrested for misplacing the king’s entire army. He never quite accepted that it had not been a horrible dream. But he never ate another turnip as long as he lived.

Jackolyn Tours The Light-Switch Factory

In all her short life, Jackolyn had never seen a factory before. When she had been younger, a "baby" she would say, she had assumed that everything just WAS. She had never once contemplated that light-switches, which were the output of this particular factory, came from anywhere outside her house.

It’s not that she assumed that light-switches grew on tress. She had been rather like a squirrel who does not comprehend where acorns come from and why, but is fully aware of exactly where they occur and how to handle them. She never assumed they were produced by magic, but rather she never assumed anything. Acorns occur on trees, light switches occur beside doorways; acorns can be picked and eaten, light switches can be flipped to produce light.

When her father had told her that he was going to give her a tour of the light-switch making factory he owned, she had been excited. Not because her father kept talking about how she would own the whole factory herself someday, but because the phrase “light-switch making factory” was a clue leading to a wider world for her. She imagined all kinds of fantastic things that the name “factory” could belong to: a hole in the ground where tiny gnomes worked night and day; a million tiny spiders that weaved their webs into solid light-switch shapes; huge beasts that burped out light-switches after consuming copious amounts of spaghetti.

In reality the factory turned out to be a long, dirty building filled with machinery so loud she wished she had a switch that turned off her ears. This miserable place was where her father came everyday while she was in school? Amongst the pain in her ears was mixed a pain in her heart for her poor father’s daily plight.

“This is where we construct the dimmer switches,” her father said, holding up his hand in an extravagant gesture of introduction over an assembly line with dozens of busy robotic arms bent over it. Jackolyn nodded and smiled at him, entirely out of pity. At that moment, she made a decision that would shape her future. She decided that once the whole factory belonged to her, as her father said it would, she would tear it down and build a jungle gym in its place.