I scratch an itch–it won’t go away–I tossturngroanthrash against the cotton-thread prison shackle-sheets–GODDAMNIT–I rub my furiously tired eyes–I turn to read the numbers on the clock, the bright red glow mocks me and reminds me how many hours I wrestled with sleep (and how many times I slunk away defeated). I turn the red glow away, but there across the room, it illuminates a silhouette, an outline of a figure–am I asleep?–is this a dream?–“no” whispers the silhouette.
short story
Two Sentence Horror Stories 8
I leaned in closer to the mirror to get a better look at where I cut myself shaving when all of a sudden, my hand reached forward, broke through the glass, and sliced my throat with the razor. As my fingers fought the spurting blood and fumbled to close the wound, I couldn’t help but notice my reflection smile, lick the blood from the blade, and wave goodbye.
Two Sentence Horror Stories 7
As I watched the surface of the water disappear into the distance, my only regret was that I was being dragged straight down and not pulled up and out. You never realize how much you love breathing until you can’t.
Two Sentence Horror Stories 6
It is a strange sensation, one that I never felt before. Not necessarily his fingers wrapped around my throat, nor is it watching the air that once filled my lungs swirl around before me, instead it is the nothingness that follows.
Two Sentence Horror Stories 5
“There’s someone else inside and they’re going to kill me,” she says after I ask her what’s wrong–but we’re clearly alone, I think to myself. Before I can ask where, she says, “In my h–SHUT UP CHRISTINE,” then after a pause, “there, that’s better.”
Two Sentence Horror Stories 3
“The worst part of digging a grave,” he chided as I tossed the final shovel-full of dirt onto the pile, “is knowing that it’s yours.” He laughed at his joke, put the barrel against the back of my head, and pulled the trigger.
Two Sentence Horror Stories 2
I used to scoff when she warned me about the skeletons in his closet; that is, until I became one. Oh, how sweetly he whispered my name.
The Shadow of the Bomb (a short story by bartleby)
The Shadow of the Bomb (a short story by bartleby).
THE SHADOW OF THE BOMB
a short story by bartleby
“Mary Ann!” the austerity in her voice zipped through the air like a hot bullet and burst my thoughts wide open. My teacher’s face replaced where the memory of my Uncle Ralph’s had faded. “Are you paying attention, my dear?”
My eyes readjusted to the other reality I was occasionally forced to inhabit. Ms. Harris had sweet eyes and curly brown hair that a young man might find pretty, but when she was upset she sure was pretty ugly; characteristics of which only fueled the fictions I devised in my preferred reality. My momma always said it was the sign of a genius, Grams said it was a wild imagination I should have grown out of by now, Pops said it was a waste of time.
“MARY ANN!” Ms. Harris shouted again, my classmates laughed, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment. A vein popped in her neck, and I feared if I stalled any longer, it might burst and the police might collect me for murder interrogations.
“Yes ma’am,” I uttered, defeated. I whispered goodbye to Uncle Ralph, wished him luck, and focused my eyes back on the black board where Ms. Harris returned to her lecture on the war. Germany this, France that, and I don’t know about Italy, but Ms. Harris’s words jumbled together like a European salad toss. Despite all this, I still did not understand why we were at war, I did not know why F.D.R. insisted that all we had to fear was fear itself, and I certainly did not follow the diagrams and anecdotes Ms. Harris spewed out as if the end of the school day, looming as it was, was insufficient to dam up her mouth. There was so much that poor woman wanted to tell us, she just might explode. I did understand, however, that I wasn’t so much afraid of fear as I was afraid of seeing my Uncle Ralph’s name in the newspaper where they listed those who had fallen in battle.
“And so, children, this is why our brave soldiers are overseas, because the Nazis and the fascists must be stopped. If they are not stopped…”
Uncle Ralph was my pop’s younger brother. He signed up for boot camp the day he turned 18 because being a dropout didn’t provide much other course in life. Pops narrowly avoided the draft on account of him having a limp since he was my age. He always felt guilty about not being able to go out and serve his country, so he confronted his shame by managing the Ford plant during the day–which had been repurposed to manufacture munitions destined for Nazi skulls–and during the night by drinking as if there was a message in the bottle. There was none, so he tried again the next night and the night after that until, two years later, he became the grouchy, unimaginative curmudgeon he is today.
Where Pops was a veritable stick-in-the-mud, Uncle Ralph was as spirited as a circus clown–minus the ridiculous make up and outrageous shoes. He always knew how to crack a joke that would fill the whole house with laughter when he came home on leave. I remember he used to sit me on his knee when I was little and bounce it like a horse, or he would hold my hands while I stood on his feet and he walked me with his giant strides through some imagined adventure. Sometimes we hiked up Mount Rainier, other times we were on a secret mission in the jungles; it always brought me joy, however, regardless of how perilous the journey was. He also frequently brought me a souvenir from his travels. One time he gave me a real shrunken shaman head from the islands in the Pacific; even though I later found out it was a cheap knock-off made at a tourist resort when cotton stuffing and a plastic tag popped out, I still loved that he thought of me whenever the Army shipped him to a new, exotic land. Uncle Ralph was my hero, and he was the reason I lay awake at nights listening to Pops read his letters to Momma. Losing Uncle Ralph was the fear that I feared most.
“Any questions?” Ms. Harris looked straight at me and I returned her gaze. This time I raised my eyebrows, shook my head, and tried to appear as if I understood everything she just said. We both knew I was full of it. “Okay, now take out your assignment notebooks and hold your pencils at the ready, here is your homework assignment for tonight.”
The class shuffled their belongings to follow our teacher’s instructions. I begrudgingly found my assignment log and reluctantly located my pencil, for even though I would much rather be rescuing a tribe of South Americans from panthers with Uncle Ralph while Ms. Harris insisted on being a lump on a log, I knew Pops would give me a licking worthy of Jack the Ripper if I came home without any homework assignments written down. I make it a personal rule to avoid being murdered, no matter how boring the alternative may be.
Ms. Harris began writing on the chalkboard in her smooth, effortless cursive and I copied her perfect script in my wobbly chicken scratch as she began to narrate herself, pausing in between words as she wrote. “I want you to use your imaginations tonight, children. Write one… properly formatted paragraph… answering the following question.” She paused to allow the class catch up. “Thinking about… the war… if you could… do one thing… to make the world… a better place… what would it be… and why?” She calmly waited for the class to finish while my mind raced away.
Well that’s easy, I thought. I’d end the war. I’d end all wars. I’d end poverty and hunger and disease and bullying and lying and all other mean, nasty things. I ripped out a crisp, new sheet of paper and scrawled all these things out. I’ll be done in no time, I thought to myself.
“But wait,” Ms. Harris interjected and I almost grunted in agitation. My shoulders plunged and my eyes rolled from my Nobel Peace Prize winning work to the blackboard. “You are forbidden from writing any general or vague statements such as ‘get rid of hatred.’ Your responses must be specific and exact solutions to a world problem. For instance, can anyone give me an example of a specific solution to the problem I just gave you? How can we get rid of hatred, students?”
A deep, profound silence wafted among the rows of desks as we all thought. If our brains made any noise working so hard the room would burst with such a prodigious cacophony to shake the pharaohs from their tombs, but we sat in silence, furiously pondering this new conundrum. This was unlike other assignments where we were tasked with determining how many watermelons remained if Mrs. Jones purchased twenty-three and dropped five. Who cares! The only thing interesting is how she could hold twenty-three watermelons in the first place. This challenge, however, actually mattered, and I was ecstatic to concoct an outstanding response. I desperately yearned to receive a ‘well done’ from Ms. Harris for once and not to witness that stupid know-it-all Randall Bolger get even more recognition. He always had the right answer at the ready, so much so that I was convinced he could read Ms. Harris’s mind, or she secretly handed him a prepared list of questions she would ask the next day as he left the class. I still haven’t figured out how he did it, but I was confident that this time, my hand would be faster than Handy Randy. Once again, my mind raced.
“Yes, Randall?” cued Ms. Harris.
Dammit, I thought, that rat bastard.
Randall lowered his hand and spoke in his annoying, prissy voice. “Well you see, Ms. Harris, if you make a class rule that everyone has to say something nice to everyone else every day, that would get rid of hatred in here, wouldn’t it?”
“Well I suppose so, well done, Randall! Do you see, class? Specifics! No general statements. You must be able to support your idea with specifics. Now,” she pointed to the clock on the wall. Two fifty six. “Once the minute hand reaches the twelve, you are all dismissed. Have a wonderful afternoon, children!”
Although I despised everything about Handy Randy, from his pig-like face to the way he chewed on his erasers, I had to admit he had a good idea. If people were nicer to each other, there certainly would be less hatred. Maybe if grownups had given more compliments when they were in school, they wouldn’t be fighting and shooting guns at each other so much. Perhaps Uncle Ralph would be at home with me.
As the rest of the class erupted into excited conversation–discussing what they would write about, which boy liked which girl, and plenty of other asinine topics–I stared intently at my paper as I erased my blueprints for world peace. While a part of me resented Ms. Harris for throwing in that last detail that rendered my work moot and another part detested Handy Randy for stealing my thunder, there still yet slumbered within me a desire to do great on this project. I wasn’t normally inclined to be a scrunch-nosed nerd like Handy Randy or Betty LaSalle and actually try on an assignment, in fact, the only motivation to do anything for Ms. Harris stemmed from the threat of a red hand print on my bottom that Pops was generously willing to supply if I didn’t apply myself. However, this assignment struck me like lightning, I couldn’t believe it but I actually cared and wanted to do well. I wasn’t completely sure, but I thought I could feel the strange sensation of hell freezing over beneath my toes.
The thoughts tumbled around my skull like the rocks I once stuck in Momma’s clothes dryer–I insisted they would transform into precious stones, but she insisted on spanking me senseless. How could I make the world a better place? It was awfully big, I doubted there was anything I could do by myself that would affect much more than the block on which I lived.
I barely noticed the other kids pack up their stuff and file past me as the minute hand gently struck the twelve. I suppose I could enact a law that would force people to… no… that’s just like Ms. Harris’s example. I could collect kids’ scraps from their lunches and mail them… no… I bet Fat Freddy already thought of that. Speaking of Fat Freddy, he and Dennis Higgins approached the door, I watched them as their hands guided toy planes through the air.
“BRATA-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!” Fat Freddy blurted. The onomatopoeia jostled his jowls like old Mrs. Anderson, our well-endowed neighbor, does when she shakes out her rug on Saturday mornings in her nightgown. Blech.
“Boys!” Ms. Harris warned, but they didn’t hear. Boys indeed.
Dennis then raised his plane as high as he could reach, emulated the sound of it zooming down on a target, dropping its payload, and that payload blowing up in a saliva-drenched rigor.
“Watch out for the B-17! Here it comes!” he shouted as loud as his lisp would allow, and before Ms. Harris could protest, as quickly as the bomb had dropped, they were already out the door strafing the hallway.
As the boys’ imagination laid waste to the school, an idea exploded into my mind. I remembered Uncle Ralph telling me about his first tour of duty, about the bombs his squadron dropped on a Japanese island.
“Bombs are terrible things, Mary Ann. Probably the worst, most horrible creations on the planet,” he told me the night before he left to go back to war, the last time I saw him.
“Why’s that?”
“They can destroy human life with such efficiency and perfection, so quickly and effortlessly, all at the press of a button. It is,” he paused, searching for the right word, “repulsive that something so destructive can be so easy to deploy and be constructed into such a simple, unassuming container. Those things are just plain terrible. I hope you never have to witness a bomb going off, Mary Ann.”
Despite his cautionary and disgusted tone, I remember being fascinated; perhaps Grams was right and I did have a wild imagination.
“What’s it like, watching a bomb do that?” I asked, feebly trying to sound sincere.
He sighed. “Well, my dear, once you press the button and the bomb bay doors open and the bombs drop, you can see them fall for a few seconds. You try not to look down below, because you know what is about to happen. You try not to think about all the people that are about to die, who have no clue their lives are about to end, but you know. That is a terrible feeling. The bombs shrink, becoming smaller and smaller until they’re no more than a speck and you can barely follow it with your eye anymore. Then when they explode, it is a massive and rapid expansion of fire. The fireball becomes so huge that it completely hides the scenery below. Then, when the fireball subsides, all you see is smoke and a haze where you once saw buildings. There are no more straight lines, just clouds of dust and smoke and craters. By then, the plane has flown too far away to see much else, it is then that you see in your mind what the bombs did to the people down there.” He shuddered at this last thought.
“But they’re the enemy, aren’t they, Uncle Ralph?”
He sighed again and brushed a strand of hair from my face. “Yes, but they’re still human beings, Mary Ann. The only reason they deserve to be under the shadow of the bomb is because they were born to the wrong parents in the wrong country.”
I thought about that. “That doesn’t sound like a reason to deserve to get blown up.”
“No, you’re right. It isn’t a good reason at all. But that’s what bombs do, that’s their job. They destroy. All it takes is the press of a button, and in an instant, so many lives are undone.”
I remember sitting on his lap in silence for a few moments. I caught Pops looking over in our direction; he sipped his 18-year-old Glenlivet from a double old fashioned, creased his eyebrows together, and shook his head slightly at Uncle Ralph.
“What does it feel like?” I asked, ignoring Pops’ warning to stop giving me nightmares.
He returned the gaze, twitched his mustache and pushed his glasses back up his hooked nose. “What do you mean?”
“To be there when a bomb explodes next to you?”
He cringed. “Gosh, Mary Ann, I don’t know. I’ve been fortunate enough to never have that happen to me.”
I stared back at him, waiting for him to finish but not realizing that he didn’t have much more of an answer.
“I guess they don’t feel much on account of it happening so quickly,” he sighed, then paused to think. “Bombs, when they explode, create a lot of pressure, and I’d assume that pressure hits you very hard, hard enough to break all your bones and take all the air out of your lungs. The heat of the fire completely envelopes you, I imagine it is so hot you are instantly burned to a crisp. Come to think of it, there is a lot that happens, but I think it would kill you so quickly that you wouldn’t feel much at all.“
I sat quietly again, pondering what Uncle Ralph just told me. “I guess it’s a good thing they don’t suffer much, right Uncle Ralph?”
I never imagined he was even capable of crying, but I swore I saw a tear well up in the corner of his eye. “I guess so, little one. But it’s still a terrible thing to do to someone.”
I nodded, and with that, realized that I had already walked well outside the school building and Uncle Ralph and his description of bombs were well in the past. I remembered that conversation as if it had happened yesterday, and I’m glad I did because it gave me an idea. I thought back to the way Uncle Ralph talked about bombs and how their sole purpose is to destroy. A bomb is an object, which, through a simple cause and effect of pushing a button, can explode to thousands of times its original size with incredible force. It seemed strange that anything could possess such a terrible potential for destruction.
The thought reminded me of my pops. He was never a happy person, but could control himself well enough when he was sober. He was an unassuming man with his grey hair, an old-man belly, rough hands from years of hard work, and a clean-shaven face. He wore a knit sweater over a plaid shirt that was tucked neatly into his pleated pants, which ran all the way down to his worn-out loafers. He dressed like this for most occasions, including lounging in the house on a day off. On special days he wore one of his two three-piece suits, but otherwise maintained appearances of a strong, responsible, American father.
When he had downed some scotch whiskey, however, his hair-trigger temper could explode very much like a bomb; the aftermath had all the devastating effects of which as well. It seemed that with the flick of a switch, my pops would instantly explode into a righteous fury, tremendously angry at anything and everything I may or may not have done, blaming me for all the wrongs in his life, and then ignoring me for days at a time. Despite his perceived absence for those few days, I would always feel a palpable air of rage, resentment, and venomous spite. It didn’t matter that I was near or far from him; I could never escape breathing in that toxic air.
His explosions overcame me with an uncomfortable, cold dread and sent crippling pressure waves that pounded at my chest. I could feel those punches emotionally bruise me, and the heat of his seething temper would burn my skin so that any encounter with him would be unbearable. I always felt as if I’d have to tread lightly on glowing-hot nails and shards of glass to avoid further damage.
In these times of terror and morose despair–when I wished I had a father who loved me all the time, not just some of the times–I always wished I could somehow explode back at him, except with love and kindness. I wished that my explosions would douse his, overcome him with warm forgiveness, smash him with a soft and gentle force that would undo all that his anger had done. But alas, it was all but a dream back then. His fits of rage were almost an act of God, and nothing short of an act of God, or at least a desperately needed respite, would mitigate his temper.
Now, though, it was the answer for my homework. If I could create a bomb that instead of exploding with an unchecked wrath, would unleash an inexorable love; and instead of destroying, it would rebuild; instead of killing, it would heal; instead of undoing buildings, it would reinforce their foundations; instead of thrashing apart people and all they are and could be, my bomb would create opportunities, nourish hope, believe in their dreams, and encourage them to be better. Where normal bombs incinerate bodies down to ash, mine would set fire to their hearts and souls and feed them a passion to enjoy life, encourage them to take risks, and inspire them to do great things.
It would soothe all the people it would explode around, expunge the suffering that the world has done to them, and wash over them with a renewed sense of optimism. Where normal bombs leave people broken, filled with fear, crippled in sorrow, and utterly devastated, mine would unleash a wild, cathartic peace. It would leave people with a sense that everything will be alright in the end, and then my bomb would make it so. Normal bombs cast a small, fleeting shadow when they fall, as if targeting the epicenter of where they will focus their destructive power. My bomb does not single any one out; it reaches far and wide, so that all can stand under its shadow as it falls. They will look up into the sky and smile, laugh, jump and shout, hug and kiss each other and celebrate, for it is not their reckoning they will anticipate, but their salvation. They will not fear an impending doom, but will await a looming joy; for it is not death that approaches, it is resounding life. It will bring hope, love, and kindness to all. It will be a massive bomb; its explosion will heal the whole world!
I wondered how that would work. How could I create a bomb that the whole world could see and feel? After all, Ms. Harris insisted that we must support our answers with details. I tried to remember if Uncle Ralph said anything about how big the bombs were.
“About the length of a man, maybe a little longer,” was his response.
“How big are the explosions?” I remember asking him.
“Well, the blasts can level a whole building, so pretty big, I guess. I once saw a fireball that was about a half of a football field wide!” I doubted that any bomb got much bigger than that.
Maybe instead of one giant bomb, I could drop hundreds, no, thousands of my love-bombs around the world at the same time. Everybody would be hit and would love each other! But what if some of my love-bombs malfunctioned? What if they missed their marks? What if some of them refused to explode and turned out to be duds? No, it must be one bomb. It must be one, single, giant event that will affect as many as people as possible, all at once. It must be the largest bomb the world has ever seen, and it will do the greatest good the world has ever known!
Surely, my love-bomb would make the world a better place; not to mention, it would certainly blow the pants off anything that Handy Randy or Fat Freddy or stupid Betty LaSalle could ever come up with. My answer will be the best in the class, I just know Ms. Harris will be so proud of me, she will read my response to the whole class!
“This, students,” she will say, “Is the greatest response to this question I have ever received through all my years of teaching. I surely hope mankind can live up to something like this someday, and I sure hope you take note of the great work that Mary Ann here has done, do strive to be like her,” she’ll chide. “Mary Ann, you did an outstanding job, I’m so sure you will do great things in the future!” She will smile, and her smile will be genuine, and I’ll genuinely smile back, close my eyes and listen as she reads my paragraph to the class. They’ll all applaud and pat me on the back and say, “Awesome work, Mary Ann!” or “Wow, that was great!” But I will be modest, for my writing will only be the cherry on top of the cake, complimenting the beautiful nature of my ideas. The love-bomb itself is the true wonder. I could feel the weight of the Nobel Prize hung around my neck, the firm handshakes of all the world leaders, and the smiles of all the people my love-bomb would save.
I was so excited about my project that I smiled the whole way home. Soon enough, while I envisioned the great works my love-bomb would do, my feet had carried me to the front door of the house where I lived. Before I could wrap my fingers around the door handle, I could hear Momma bounce to the door, swing it open wide, then push open the screen to let me in. She had a wide smile on her face and before I could step over the threshold, she wrapped me in her arms, lifted me, and spun me in circles.
“Oh, Mary Ann! You must have heard already!” she exclaimed, noting the wide smile on my face. “Isn’t it wonderful? Oh, such a happy, happy day!”
I had to wait for her to stop spinning me around before I could push myself away. I could hear someone talking on the television in the living room and Pops was in there with some of our neighbors–Mr. Patterson, Mrs. Anderson, Mr. Schmidt, and a man I didn’t recognize. They patted each other on the backs, shook hands, smiled, and hugged. I kept the smile on my face, though I had no idea why my folks were so happy.
“Heard what, Momma? Why is everybody so happy?”
She ushered me into the living room and pointed frantically to the television screen where a black and white image of a man reading from a paper cut to a group of grinning soldiers. “Look, Mary Ann! We’ve won the war! The war is over!”
“We haven’t won the war yet, dear,” Pops said, he tried to sound stern but his smile showed he agreed with Momma. “The Japs will surrender by the end of the week though once they realize they can’t compete with us now!”
“What do you mean, Pops?” I asked.
“Here, look, the newsman is saying it now, listen!” Momma hushed everybody and I planted myself in front of the screen to watch as the black and white man stared back at me.
“I repeat, a United States aircraft has dropped an atomic bomb on the Japanese city of Hiroshima. The device is more than 2,000 times more powerful than the largest bomb created to date. Although there remains a thick layer of dust obscuring the ground, early reports state that the entire city has been leveled. This is being hailed by General MacArthur as a major victory because Hiroshima was a primary supply depot for the Japanese army. President Truman has stated that scientists have been working on the bomb for four years now…”
I could feel the corners of my mouth soften as my jaw dropped, my stomach lurched, and my heart felt as if it was punched after one of Pop’s outbursts. I watched on the screen the massive explosion illuminate everything so brightly that it blinded my eyes. Then a monstrous cloud stretched from the ground to the edge of the sky. As the cloud expanded, an incredible pressure wave shoved the atmosphere away in a viciously perfect circle. In the background, I could see the curvature of the Earth. The blast was tremendous; it must have destroyed the entire city.
Everyone in the room cheered as the television replayed the images of Hiroshima being obliterated by the massive bomb. Momma rubbed my shoulders and kissed my cheek but I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen; I felt as dead all those people who were repeatedly slaughtered on the television screen. My God, there must have been tens of thousands of them, a hundred thousand, maybe even a million…
I could hear Uncle Ralph’s voice in my head. “You try not to look down below, because you know what is about to happen. You try not to think about all the people that are about to die, who have no clue their lives are about to end, but you know.”
“Isn’t this wonderful, Mary Ann?” Momma said, curious as to why I was not celebrating. “Uncle Ralph will be home soon!” I stood still and cold as a gravestone. I could not speak. My love-bomb was now a fleeting memory of the past, shrouded by the same dust that settled over Hiroshima. My love-bomb could not compete with this; nothing could compete with this.
Just as quickly as the bomb on the screen transformed from a tiny speck to an enormous fireball, I no longer cared to complete my assignment. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore.
“Mary Ann?”
END
Curiosity Killed the Cat
I realized I had not posted in far too long, and as a writer, this is a sin, catastrophe, cataclysmic disaster, or whatever post-apocalyptic superlative you choose. I’ve got enough excuses to form a line out the door and around the world only to end right where the line begins, much like the “Snake” game on the old Nokia mobile phones. You’d think a snake could weasel out of a tight space better than any other animal (even a weasel), but alas, there simply is no space. But ah, me, I digress.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve a plethora of topics to write, but most seem to require much more time than how long I anticipate I’ll be able to force my eyelids to remain open, so I would like to impart upon you a piece of wisdom I had learned when I was in the fifth grade. The lesson I learned–I suppose much earlier than many do and cats never do–is that curiosity is dangerous.
Luckily for my safety, the way which I learned my lesson was far less physically harmful so much as socially embarrassing, but hey, it will be a story to tell my own kids when they’ve developed long enough attention spans and a sense of humor.
So there I was, sitting in Social Science, a class commandeered by a teacher whose name was reminiscent of “boogers,” (needless to say we enjoyed the nicknames we thought of). Bored out of my mind, completely ignoring the lecture on globalization, state capitols, or whatever other nonsense we were being spoon-fed, my pen was somehow astronomically more interesting. How fascinating was the tension in the spring, how captivating was the design and manufacturing, how enchanting was the consistency of the ink (and so on and so on). I fancied myself a mechanic, expertly dissembling and reassembling an engine, except my specimen was far simpler, so my imagined ego-boost was only cosmetic.
After rebuilding the pen about a dozen times–completely oblivious to whatever Mrs. Booger was spouting and all else that took place in the world–I was confident I had become a virtuoso in the art of Pen Reconstruction. As they say, however, he who gets too comfortable will pay the price. What’s this? An error? It can’t be, I’ve done this a dozen times without a problem before… The malfunction, which had effectively ceased production and struck a small pang of fear in my heart was that I had managed to remove the metal tip of the pen from its proper end on the ink cartridge and firmly lodge it into the other end. This was a potential safety issue, for any second now the ink was bound to escape and onto the factory floor (my school desk) and then the whole plant would need to be shut down. Time is money, as they also say.
Instead of memorizing facts that would surely ace the ACT or things that would no doubt earn me acceptance into Harvard, I preoccupied myself that auspicious of days with how to remove the tip of the pen from the wrong end of the ink cartridge. I think the thought of how I would explain this to my parents may have popped into my head, but mostly I began problem solving.
I thought, “A paperclip would do no good in prying it out, it wouldn’t even fit in there. I don’t have scissors to cut it out. I have nothing to push it out from the other end. Well, Old Chap, it must be sucked out.” Can you see where this is going? I didn’t.
I placed my lips around the ink cartridge and voided the pressure from within my mouth. Nothing. Try, try again and you will succeed. Again, I sucked but I had done well to ensure that pen tip would stay. Third time’s the charm, and surely it was. I assume the pen tip flew into the back of my mouth, not unlike a pinbal banging around my throat, earning points off my tonsils, etc. The reason I assume, was because the tip was not the only part of the pen which entered my mouth.
All I knew at that moment was that ink tasted terrible. My whole mouth was flooded, as if I succumbed to my primal urges and bit into some wild animal’s neck that bled a thick, deep blue blood. I coughed loudly, my secret was out, any efforts to inconspicuously not pay attention were swallowed with the pen tip as I desperately tried to expunge the vile ink from my mouth and all over my desk. The eyes of all my classmates upon me, their laughter soon filled the air when they put two and two together and realized why I was coughing up ink. Mrs. Booger did not know if she should call the nurse, scowl, or join in her students’ chortling, for she just watched as I retched pen ink from my mouth onto my desk.
“Are you OK?” she asked.
I nodded. “May I be excused?”
She nodded.
I exited the classroom to wash my mouth out, laughter exploding as I closed the door behind me. I never realized up until then that all those times my father made me wash my mouth out with soap for cursing wasn’t a punishment, but practice. Then, I was thankful for practicing how to wash my mouth out, thankful he had me build up a tolerance for soap, because I was able to get most of the ink out of my mouth, albeit a lingering taste on my tongue and a new hue, as if I had sucked on many a deep-blue candy.
I slowly trudged back to class, accepting my fate as the laughing stock of the class. Now I REALLY wondered how I would explain this to my mother.
Needless to say, I learned three valuable lessons that day. One, that ink actually tastes terrible (so does the resin you use to prep your bow to play the violin, contrary to belief, it does not taste like maple syrup). Two, don’t suck from an ink cartridge, no matter how much you think you know what you’re doing. Three, no matter how many times you can dissect a pen, you are not an engineer. As simple as the pen is, it always has a trick or two up its ink cartridge. Surely, the pen is mightier–and more foul–than the sword.
So as I walked through the school doors on my way home that day, I walked out with a blue mouth, hurt pride, and a new-found respect for pens. I also walked out understanding the phrase “curiosity killed the cat.”
bartlebysoup 