Down in the Dumps

Sophie lost the locket her grandmother gave her a few months ago, before she died. They were really close. In fact, Sophie was closer to her grandmother than anyone else in the world. They always joked that they were soul mates, not in the romantic sense of the phrase, but more like soul sisters—in the way that their souls were as close as sisters, and as good of a fit together as mates. So this was no ordinary piece of jewelry in Sophie’s eyes. It meant the world to her. Now it was gone and she couldn’t find it and she was scared she never would. And that killed her.

She usually put it beside her bed on her nightstand, which is right next to the small garbage bin she kept in her room for the wrappers of her late-night snacks. It wasn’t impossible to think that the locket might’ve fallen into the garbage bin without Sophie noticing. And since she’d checked everywhere else in the entire house, there was only one place left to look—the garbage dump.

Sophie threw together what she referred to as her Sanitation Kit, which mainly consisted of hand sanitizer and rubber gloves, plus a bandana she had doused with perfume to use as a facemask. Kit in hand, she snuck out of the house without telling anyone where she was going. She knew that seeing her mother would cause her to burst into tears, and having to search through blurred vision was the last thing she needed.

After an unsuccessful day in the dumps, Sophie returned home feeling defeated and depressed. It was hard enough to wake up every day knowing that her grandmother was no longer alive, but now she couldn’t even comfort herself with the special locket she loved so much. Life just didn’t seem fair to her anymore. She didn’t even bother trying to hide her disappointment as she collapsed into a seat at the kitchen table.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Sophie’s mother asked upon both seeing and smelling her daughter.

Sophie gave no reply. She just continued to sit and stare off into space, her big brown eyes glazed over so that she appeared to be looking at something intently but at the same time seeming to actually see nothing at all. She kind of looked like a very life-like robot that had run out of batteries in the middle of sighing.

“Now, Sophie, I know something is wrong—I’m a mom, that’s our job. Why don’t you just tell me?” her mother asked, urging her daughter to give some sort of response.

Again, nothing from Sophie.

“You’ve been down in the dumps all week, sweetheart. Don’t try to deny that. Is this about your grandmother’s locket? Did you forget that we were getting the hinge repaired this week?” her mother asked.

Sophie immediately perked up at the news, her eyes filling with hot, happy tears. She couldn’t find any words to say, and even if she had, she couldn’t have spoken. Her throat was shut off, trying to prevent a long-stifled sob.

“Oh, that’s it, isn’t it? Oh, sweetie, it’s okay. I’m going to pick it up tomorrow—you have nothing to be sad about. Grandma wouldn’t want that. And I don’t, either. No more being down in the dumps, okay? Not emotionally, and certainly not physically. Can you promise me that, Soph?” her mother replied, gently rubbing Sophie’s back and lifting her spirits.

On Top of the World

For reasons he couldn’t quite put into words, he decided to end his life. It wasn’t just one thing—it was everything. And he knew he didn’t have the strength to keep fighting for much longer. But there were a lot of things he’d never done, so he made a “Bucket List” of sorts. It would’ve more accurately been called a “Pre-suicide Checklist” or a “List of Things Every Person Should Try Once Before Dying” or something along those lines.

He figured he could keep going for another few months, and in that time he would complete as many of the checklist items as he could. He knew it didn’t really matter how many items he checked off, but he also knew that this would give him a reason to live for a little while longer. And he hoped that one of the items on the list might help him rediscover the passion for life he felt in his younger years, back when anything seemed possible and the world was at his fingertips. Now it seemed like the world was just past his fingertips, in sight but always just out of reach.

He headed out the next morning to begin working on the list, which he had ranked from easiest and most likely to complete to most difficult and unlikely. That way he could have a few easy wins in the beginning and hopefully that would make him feel a little bit of relief. Not that that would change much of anything in the long run, but maybe it would encourage him not to give up on the list too easily.

Item # 1: Eat a “Lumberjack Special” breakfast at The Diner on the Corner

Item # 9: Visit the Capital Building and see where the State Senators meet

Item # 17: Tell the librarian how much her services are appreciated

Item # 23: Drive. No set path, no destination. Just drive for the sake of driving (and maybe to see a little scenery, too)

Item # 29: Go to the bridge by the river (the one over on Canal Street), lean against the railing, strike a famous pose, and scream

It was item # 29 that changed his mind. As he stood there on the wall of the Canal Street Bridge, he struck the most famous pose he could think of for the moment. He stood with his arms outstretched and he leaned forward, allowing the railing to support his weight.

He took a deep breath, threw his head back and yelled, “I’m on top of the world!”

And for the first time in a long time, he believed it. He really did feel like he was on top of the world. For some reason, this made him feel like he no longer needed the list to make his life worth living. He tore it in half and watched as the pieces flew away in the wind, slowly making their way down towards the water below.

On the Fence

“So, are you coming with me or staying with him?” Xander demanded.

I didn’t quite know what to say though, because Xander and Charlie are my two best friends in the world and it felt wrong to join one and abandon the other.

“Yeah, Tommy, you’ve gotta make up your mind soon,” Charlie added. “It’s getting dark and I can’t be late for dinner.”

“I, uhh, I don’t know yet. Gimme a second to think, would ya?” I was stalling. I didn’t really feel like going to Charlie’s house for dinner again, what with his mom’s awful cooking and his dad’s booze-induced speeches.

“I think I’m gonna go with Xander,” I said, mimicking the decisiveness I heard in Xander’s voice when he told us his top-secret plan to go spray paint the old train cars on the other side of town. It seemed like a dumb idea at first, but now that I’d agreed to it I was starting to see the plan’s true potential.

Xander climbed up the barbed-wire fence and hopped over, taking a few giant steps when he landed in order to avoid falling. I started up after him. But, seeing as I was wearing new jeans and they were a little stiff, my movements were a bit slower and significantly less certain.

About halfway up, it hit me—this was, in fact, a dumb idea. Why was I bothering to go along with it anyway? Because Xander said it would be cool? I should’ve gone to Charlie’s house for that stupid, insufferable dinner. At least I’d be safe and warm and given a full meal, even if it was terrible.

But by now I was straddling the fence, where I sat calmly contemplating my choices until I noticed my new jeans were caught in the barbed wire.

I was definitely losing my cool and collected manner, but I didn’t want to seem totally panicked, so I said, in as casual a voice as I could manage, “Uhh, guys? I don’t know about this. I’m on the fence—“

Before I could say anything about my pants being caught, the boys cut me off, screaming about my indecisiveness in the crude and cruel way that only 12-year-old boys can truly understand. It was weird having a friend on either side, each telling me what he thinks I should do and both suggesting total opposites. The whole thing gave me a weird angel-on-one-shoulder-devil-on-the-other sensation, which I thought was a funny image. It reminded me of all the cartoons I used to watch and laugh at with Xander and Charlie on Saturday mornings. The parts where a kid had to make a tough decision and he could hear the voice of fun from one side and the voice of reason from the other.

So I started laughing, a deep, belly chuckle but I quickly lost control and it turned into a high almost-cackle. I ended up sounding like a crazy person, which was admittedly not great, but it got them both to shut up and listen to what I was saying. It unintentionally worked to my advantage, and I told myself it was all a part of the plan so that I’d feel a little less unstable. Stability was the big thing right now. 

“I’m really on the fence, you guys. Like, I’m literally stuck on the fence—my pants are,” I said in my most convincing sane-person voice.

“Don’t worry dude, we’ll get you down,” Charlie reassured me.

“Yeah,” Xander replied. “Well, which way do you want to come down? Towards Charlie or towards me?”

But I didn’t know how to answer. I was on the fence about the whole thing, and I couldn’t seem to pick a side.

Don’t Put All Your Eggs in One Basket

Janie’s basket was pretty full, but she really didn’t want to make a second trip out to the chicken coop so she kept piling the eggs on top of each other until her basket could hold no more. She was so sick of living on a farm, but soon she wouldn’t have to worry about collecting eggs or feeding the birds or anything like that anymore. In the fall, Janie would be attending The University—well, assuming she got her acceptance letter in the mail sometime soon.

“Janie, come inside. You’ve got a letter here,” Janie’s mother yelled from the screen door in the kitchen.

Janie instinctively knew what it was—she never got mail. She sprinted inside, almost dropping the heavy basket of eggs twice on the way. Throwing open the screen door, Janie came to an abrupt stop just inside the kitchen. She tried not to seem too eager, although she knew the anxiousness was written all over her face. She’d been waiting to hear back from The University for several weeks and her mother had seen her rifling through the mail like a madman on more than one occasion. Playing it cool was not Janie’s strong suit.

After taking a moment to collect herself, Janie set the overflowing basket of eggs on the stool by the door and hurried over to her mother. What she wanted to do was snatch that letter out of her mother’s hands and rip it open like an impatient child opening a birthday present.

But instead, she took the letter with a smile and a small nod, thanking her mother. Janie turned around and faced the corner of the kitchen, creating her own private space as secluded as any other in their modest farmhouse. She stood holding the envelope, trying to breathe deeply for about 10 seconds before her mother spoke up.

“Well, go ahead. Open it,” Janie’s mother instructed.

Janie jumped and looked up from the letter in her hands with a panicked expression. She turned her head to face her mother briefly, surprised to remember she wasn’t alone in the room.

“Yeah, of course, sorry,” Janie said in a near-whisper, speaking as if there wasn’t enough air in her lungs or the room or the whole world to calm her down with deep breathing.

She turned her attention back to the envelope in her hands and opened it using a kitchen knife as a letter opener, careful not to slice into the letter itself. She slid it out of the envelope and unfolded it, and then began to read.

What little hope was left in her face slowly drained as she read the first sentence until her expression resembled the very definition of sorrow. Janie was not accepted to The University, and would not be attending school in the fall. She was devastated. The University was the only school she applied to—she’d been so sure she’d be accepted! It was too late to apply anywhere else, and now Janie would surely have to stay here on the farm for another year. She wanted to be alone, to have a little time to process the fact that her dreams were just crushed in a single sentence, but her mother wasn’t about to let that happen.

“Janie!” she yelled from the other side of the kitchen, over by the door. “You clumsy little girl, how many times have I told you not to put all your eggs in one basket? It’s too heavy and all of the eggs break. These are all cracked—they’re ruined! Looks like there will be no cake for your sister’s birthday today, and she’s got you to thank for that…”

Don’t put all your eggs in one basket, Janie thought, temporarily tuning out the yelling. She finally understood what her mother had meant all these years—if only a little too late.

Kill Two Birds With One Stone

“And while we’re in town we can pick up some of the stuff you wanted from the corner store—pens, a notebook, some a those sore-throat candies,” Andy said with the uncertainty of a person who has never purchased pens, notebooks, or cough drops. “I can grab some jerky, too. Hell, we can get whatever we need while we’re there.”

Timothy gave a quiet, breathy laugh and said, “Yeah, that’s great. Kill two birds with one stone, right?”

“Well, uhh… I guess we could try that,” Andy said, shifting in his seat. “I mean, I’m not real sure how to go about that. There’s gotta be some real skill involved…”

Timothy furrowed his brows and cocked his head to the right in disbelief. Did Uncle Andy not hear me laugh? he thought. Does he not know that idiom? He has to know it—how could he not know the expression ‘kill two birds with one stone?’ Doesn’t everybody know that? I thought everybody’d at least heard it before...

It was pretty clear by Timothy’s expression that he and Uncle Andy were not on the same page, but Andy was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice the confused and disapproving stare coming from his nephew.

“You’ve gotta get a real big stone, I ‘spose. That or you use some sorta mathematical equation to calculate what angle and speed you’d need to throw the rock at to make it hit one bird, bounce off its skull and hit the other…” Andy continued, simultaneously horrifying and impressing his guest—impressing him in the way that a psychopath might impress a person with normal emotions, not exactly an admiration but dredging up some weird, momentary jealousy in the normal person.

But how could Timothy not be somewhat entertained by the determination in his uncle’s face? He’d never seen Uncle Andy work this hard at anything before, never in the entire 23 years they’d known each other. Not once.

Timothy wondered, is it possible that creative problem solving could be Uncle Andy’s passion? That all these years he’s been hiding some sort of intelligence, hiding well-honed critical thinking skills out here in the middle of the cornfields? Or maybe he’s just been harboring some sort of deep-seated hatred of birds, some weirdly strong resentment with origins unknown to me?  

“You know, you might be better off using a slingshot. Don’t you think?” Andy continued. “I mean, to get a rock to bounce off a bird’s skull and hit another one hard enough to kill it? That rock’s gotta be movin' pretty fast, if you ask me. Plus the slingshot would help with, like, accuracy and that stuff.”

Timothy, his full attention back on his uncle, realized that having a passion and voicing a fantasy about killing birds were two entirely different things. He hated himself for confusing the two, even if it was only for a moment. One moment of stupidity, but it felt more like the beginning of the end to Timothy. It wasn't just the whole stupid conversation, but the whole stupid town—it was throwing him off his mental game already. After only three days, country life was getting to him. He wasn’t a country-man like his uncle Andy, he was a city-boy with a city-education and the sense of arrogance that is virtually nonexistent in the country.

Andy was still rambling on about how to kill two birds, but he had somehow escalated to thoughts of killing entire flocks of birds with a handful of rocks.

“I don’t know, Timmy. This whole damn thing seems a little silly, if you ask me. Why don’t we just head into town and grab a couple of beers with the guys and see what they think about it? You know they’ll have somethin' to say,” Andy concluded, already grabbing the keys to his truck and heading towards the door.

Timothy, shaking his head, laughed quietly and muttered to himself, “You can do this, Timothy. Bond with Uncle Andy while you're researching for your next story. Kill two birds with one stone."

Great Minds Think Alike

It’s often said that great minds think alike—but can that really be the truth?

There are a few qualities that are used to define a mind as “great”.  The mind must have the ability to:

1.     Comprehend things that are, to lesser minds, inconceivable.

2.     Imagine things that no other mind can fathom.

3.     Conquer some sort of existing problem by means of critical thinking and analysis.

All in all, the thing that makes a mind truly great is its ability to be unique and unlike anything we’ve ever encountered.  To be “unique” is to be “one of a kind”, so how can we say that two unique minds are the same?

The word great means considerably above the normal or average, distinguished. 

Being distinguished is being successful, authoritative, something that commands respect, outstanding.

Outstanding is exceptionally good, clearly noticeable, notable.

Unsurprisingly, notable means worthy of attention of notice, remarkable, noteworthy.

To be noteworthy is to be interesting or unusual.

Unusual is defined as uncommon, rare, something remarkable or interesting because it’s different from or better than others.

As it turns out, the very thing that makes a mind “great” is what sets it apart from all other minds and keeps it from thinking similarly to others.  No two un-great minds think alike, so how can we justify the idea of two great minds— minds that change our world and shape our youth—thinking alike?

A Piece of Cake

T-minus 6 minutes until the opening of the gates at the Fairmont County Fair and Stacey was losing it.  She’d been planning the fair’s opening day for close to six months—down to every last detail.  On paper, this was to be the best fair that the town of Fairmont had ever seen.  But things were not going according to plan.

The official Book of Rules had been printed and distributed to each of the hand-selected volunteers, but it was clear to Stacey that no one had bothered to read it. 

Violation of Rule 26, Article 7:  the volunteers at the corn dog stand were only wearing one hair net each, when the rule clearly stated that they each wear two.

Violation of Rule 13, Article 9:  volunteer clowns should be sure their socks are of two different colors and designs to maximize audience enjoyment.

Violation of Rule 71, Article 5:  the cakewalk station needs to supply cake (and only cake) as a prize to whichever lucky fair-attendee happens to be on the winning square when the music stops.

Stacey could deal with the corn dog stand workers’ carelessness by bringing extra hair nets around and the clown problem could be easily solved by making the volunteers trade socks until no clown wore two matching ones, but the ignorance of the cakewalk volunteers was crossing the line.

Who do these people think they are, serving pie instead of cake?  At my fair!  And what’s with all these extra rules?  This is a cakewalk, for God’s sake!  It’s meant to be easy enough for all Fairmont citizens, Stacey thought to herself as she marched over to the cakewalk station.  Furious, she told herself it was time to teach them—and all the other volunteers for that matter—a lesson.

“I don’t know what all these pies are doing here, but this is a cakewalk,” Stacey boomed as she reached across the table and grabbed the plate with the biggest piece of blueberry pie.  She whipped the plate in front of her body to her right to show the volunteers what a ridiculous joke this entire fair had turned into.  As she did, the blueberry goop sloshed off the side of the plate and landed at her feet with a juicy plop!

There was a moment of silence in which no one knew whether the fair had rules against laughing at this sort of thing.

Through her clenched teeth Stacey managed to say, “this should be a piece of cake!  All of it!  Just a piece of cake—is that asking too much?”

She marched away, yelling at the janitorial staff through her headset.  T-minus 3 minutes until the opening of the gates.  This fair was turning out to be anything but a piece of cake.

*This story is for my mom—thanks for being a better mom than I ever could’ve asked for.  I love you and Happy Mother’s Day! 

No Use Crying Over Spilt Milk

No Use Crying Over Spilt Milk

“Oh, don’t worry, honey.  There’s no use crying over spilt milk.”

“Unless that milk was the only thing you had to eat or drink for two weeks straight and you just spilled it and now you and your entire family are probably gonna starve or die or something… Then you can cry about it.”

“Well… I suppose it’s alright to cry then.”

“Or if you’re an actor and the director tells you Hey! You better start crying over that spilt milk or you’re fired, buddy!  In that case, you’d have to cry over split milk if you wanted to keep your job.”

“Yes, I guess that’s right.”

“Or if you were alive before the vacuum cleaner was invented and your job was to go around a restaurant with a straw and quickly slurp up the drinks people spilled before it got on the carpet.  And if you were lactose intolerant, then it would be okay to cry about spilt milk—everyone would understand.”

“That’s, uhh, very creative, hon.  I don’t think—“

“Or if you were a milkman and you spilled an entire truck load of milk and you knew you were gonna get fired because that’s exactly the kind of thing a milkman can’t do, then it would be okay to cry over spilt milk.”

 “These are very unique examples, but the expression—“

“Or if you were only pretending to be a milkman but really you were an undercover cop and you were dropping off milk at the mob boss’ house and it was one of those sting operations and the bottles of milk you dropped off had little teeny tiny invisible-like microphones and cameras and you were supposed to give them the milk and get out of there but you were nervous and your hands were sweating and you dropped the whole case of milk right outside their door and they opened it to see what all the noise was and they looked down at the split milk and it was sort of sparking and they could tell you were trying to bug their joint and they just looked up at you and you could tell they were going to kill everyone and everything you loved and then they were gonna kill you.  Then it would be okay to cry—not just for you but for your whole family, you know?”

“Enough.  I love how creative you are, but this needs to stop.  No use crying over spilt milk is an expression—it’s like what happened, happened and crying about it isn’t going to change a thing.  You understand?  Okay, now will you please eat your breakfast?  You’re going to be late for school.” 

A Penny Saved is a Penny Earned

Janet didn’t have a problem.  She’d been collecting things her entire life—books, stamps, porcelain dolls, rocks, empty bottles, slightly broken chairs.  She didn’t even hesitate anymore when people stared at her with gaping mouths as she dug through the bins of garbage outside the Hillridge Apartment Complex two and a half miles from her house.  So what if they watched her with disgust?  That was their problem, not hers.

It all started when she was about twelve, a few months after her family moved to New York.  Her father was an avid drinker, and he was known back home for being a bit loose with his wallet when he’d had a few too many drinks.  That wasn’t his biggest problem, though.  His biggest problem was his pride.  Afraid to admit just how much of a screw up he really was, Janet’s father would often bet what little money his wife had earned doing laundry that week—the money that was meant to buy their family bread, milk, and butter.

But he didn’t care, as long as he didn’t have to admit his own failure, as long as he could blame luck.  So what if it meant they would go to bed hungry?  It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

One day Janet walked in to find her father passed out on the couch in just his underwear, her mother crouching on the floor over his pants.  In about three seconds her mother had successfully taken the few coins remaining in his pockets, put two down the front of her dress and slipped the third back in his pants to avoid suspicion.  When she saw Janet watching her, she simply whispered, “A penny saved is a penny earned” and walked away.

Janet started collecting, too.  If a penny saved is a penny earned, think of what I can earn by saving stuff worth more than a stupid penny, she thought.  And so it began.

She might have come from humble beginnings, but look at her now!  Janet had an entire house all to herself.  And the things—God, she had so many possessions!  Her house was crammed to the top with them, every free space housing a stack of newspapers or a bag of old cans she was planning on exchanging for cash.  Under the piles of partner-less shoes she had chairs and tables that were only missing one leg, which she knew could be easily fixed and then resold to make a quick buck.  She just hadn’t had the chance to sit down and physically fix the legs—not yet.  But she would.  Just you wait and see, she thought to herself whenever someone brought this fact to her attention.

The smell didn’t bother her too much either—it was just something that came with the glory of owning things she supposed.  Other people might complain, but screw them.  They could make their houses smell like whatever they wanted, but this was her house and she happened to like the smell of success… Well, it was closer to the smell of a corpse rotting in a garbage dump on a hot August day, but who cares? 

She didn’t have friends, but it was better that way.  Less people askin' me for money, she told herself whenever she noticed how quiet a house without people could get. 

But none of that mattered because Janet was going to be filthy rich one of these days—as soon as she had a chance to fix the broken chairs and repaint the faded dolls’ cheeks.  All she had to do, for now, was keep collecting and saving things.  Whenever she started to doubt her approach to life, she just thought of what her mother said all those years ago and she’d feel better.  A penny saved is a penny earned, and just look at all the stuff I’ve saved!  I’m gonna be richer than a king someday, Janet would think to herself time and again. 

If she thought it enough, repeated it over and over, one of these days she might just believe it.  One of these days it might become true.  

Barking Up the Wrong Tree

Rrggrrrr. I could hear the guttural growling coming from behind me as I sprinted down the deserted gravel road towards my house. 

What have I done to provoke this chase? Nothing! I haven’t done anything at all! So what’s going on, why was I chosen as the target when there were at least six other young men who’s capture would prove more worthy of the time and effort this animal was putting in. 

I can hear him gaining on me, panting like the stupid dog that he is. Man, what an idiotic creature. Doesn’t he know I have nothing for him? I don’t bring a lunch to work because I have to go home to the wife during my much too short lunch break. The other men sat there with sandwiches, Tupperware containers filled with leftovers from the previous night, freshly baked desserts you could smell from a mile away, and yet this dumb dog chose to come after me—the only man with nothing to give.

He’s gaining on me. I see a tree not too far off, and I figure I can climb up there and hide until he loses interest and saunters away to scavenge the deserted lunching grounds for scraps of food the other men left behind.

I manage to fumble my way into the tree, and the dog circles the trunk growling and barking—as if that will do anything at all. He stares me down like I’m the enemy. I can’t help but yell down to him.

“What are you looking at, you stupid dog? I have nothing for you!”

My screams are met with an unsettlingly deep and constant growl. He doesn’t look as if he’ll be giving up any time soon. I try a new approach: reason.

“If I had any food, don’t you think I would’ve given it to you long ago? It doesn’t make sense for me to run for this long and sit in this tree when I could easily escape by giving you whatever food I was hoarding. But I haven’t got any food with me. I swear.”

The growling continues and he snarls, showing me his surprisingly sharp teeth. Other than his flaring nostrils, he shows no signs of exhaustion. Clearly reason means nothing to a beast like this.

Both physically and emotionally exhausted, I cry out, “I can’t give you what you want! I have nothing. Please! You’re making a mistake—you’re barking up the wrong tree!”

My words have no effect on the snarling, growling, foaming-at-the-mouth beast that just won’t quit. I try to settle back into the web of branches. It looks like I’ll be up here for quite some time.