Story # 23: "Many Hands Make Lights Work"

Okay, so this is the last story from my late-night creative spurt. I will admit that it's entirely possible that the quality of my output decreased exponentially as my tiredness increased, and that this is the weakest entry among them. But I do think there's at least some value in this story. Perhaps not. Either way, here it is.  ~  JH

"MANY HANDS MAKE LIGHTS WORK"

There's an old joke, which has never been very funny, that poses the question:  How many __________ does it take to screw in a light bulb? The fill-in-the-blank in question is usually a ditzy blonde, a member of a minority group, or some other personage deemed to be unfit to perform basic electrical work. The joke's punchline varies, is ever only slightly amusing, and becomes less amusing with each telling.

Presumably, the point of the joke – if indeed there is one – is that the stupider you are, the greater the number of people like you it takes to inefficiently accomplish a simple task, thereby serving to make you appear even stupider. Collectively stupider, in fact.

I never liked that joke very much, and I still don't. But I did gain a newfound appreciation for the meaning behind it last night, as I observed a group of twelve or more highly intoxicated or severely hungover frat boys cursing at the moon because they couldn't figure out how to switch the sun on.

I strolled over the group of guys and instructed them that, in order to make the sun rise, they had to yell the secret password – which happened to be a particularly controversial and quite offensive word – at the top of their lungs repeatedly. And then I walked away.

The hapless frat boys were soon arrested for disturbing the peace, while I enjoyed a quiet evening at home. That probably wasn't a very nice thing for me to do.

Story # 22: "You Scratch My Back, And I'll Stab Yours"

Let me start off by saying that I grew to hate the main character in this one more and more as I got deeper into writing the story. But I couldn't just easily explain his attitude away in order to ensure a happy ending. Because there really are people out there like this guy. Thankfully, I'm not one of them.  ~  JH

"YOU SCRATCH MY BACK, AND I'LL STAB YOURS"

I've never understood the concept of reciprocity. Or, to be more precise, I've never particularly identified with it. Why, if you do something nice for me, must I in turn do something nice for you?

I mean, I can certainly understand why you'd want to do me a favor. Let's face it – I'm phenomenal! But you? You're average at best. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm sure I'm not.

If I were to return your act of kindness, however random or deserving it may be, it would likely be out of sheer pity and nothing more. But to be quite honest, I'd just as soon not reciprocate at all.

You see, I pride myself on my transparency. My life is an open book, without a trace of hypocrisy. So if you do unto me and I do right back unto you simply because it's socially expected of me, I'm being a hypocrite. And I don't like being hypocritical – as a matter of fact, I refuse to be.

So here's the deal: If you choose to do me a favor, whether I deserve it or not (although, let's be real – of course I deserve it!), I'm going to do one of two things in response. Either I'm going to thank you for your generosity and then go about my business, or I'm going to turn right around and do something nice for you in kind.

The latter is, admittedly, less likely, but it's not altogether out of the question, depending on how returning a gesture may affect me positively in the future. In other words, what's in it for me?

If I deem you worthy of my reciprocity, then so be it. Consider yourself blessed. If not, don't complain. That's just the way it goes. You scratch my back, I'll stab you in yours.

Hey, I gotta be me. Transparent, genuine, and not the least bit hypocritical. What can I say? It's just one more thing that proves how phenomenal I truly am!

Story # 21: "Downtown Abby"

Yes, I did spell both of the words in the title "wrong." Obviously, the title of this story is a play on words referring to the popular TV show (which I love, and have watched every episode of, by the way). This story, however, has nothing to do with the show in the least. Enjoy!  ~  JH

"DOWNTOWN ABBY"

Abby was a country girl, born and raised. And proud of it, she might add. In fact, in her twenty-three years of life, she'd never even so much as set foot in the city. And why should she? The city was sixty miles away from her hometown, and everything – and everyone – she needed was right here.

As Abby was quite fond of saying, she hadn't lost anything in the city, so why on earth would she go and look for anything there? Until, that is, she met Eddie.

The tall, dark, and incredibly handsome salesman – how cliché could you get, really? – had driven into town on a Thursday morning. He'd come to her door early that afternoon. Abby wasn't sure what the thingamajigger he was peddling was supposed to do, but she bought four of them on the spot.

Understandably, Abby was captivated by the stranger's good looks, and she was determined to get to know him better. When Eddie told her that he lived in the city, Abby was practically devastated. Alas, there was no future for her in Eddie. Or was there?

Eddie packed up his wares on Saturday morning to head back home. Abby was waiting for him by his car when he stepped out of the hotel, feeling every bit as desperate as she appeared.

Despite the inner voice that was screaming at her to be reasonable, to have some self-respect for crying out loud, and to show at least a modicum of restraint, Abby found herself speaking the words out loud.

"Take me with you."

Eddie smiled mysteriously, dropped his bags in the back seat, and motioned Abby over to the passenger side of the car. She got in eagerly, but hesitated before shutting the door.

This was stupid, she knew – not to mention morally reprehensible, and maybe even a touch psychotic. But she was doing it. Wasn't she?

Abby slammed the door of Eddie's car, making what was apparently her decision and sealing her fate, for good or ill. As Eddie cranked the car, Abby stared out at the road ahead which led out of town and toward the city. She knew now that her life would never be the same again. And that was okay.

Story # 20: "Appearances Can Be Relieving"

For several hours, I couldn't sleep last night. So I started writing. Before I was done (and by then, thoroughly exhausted), I had written four brand-new short stories. I guess brainstorming for titles these past few days was all I needed to be be inspired. That, and insomnia. Here's the first of last night's feverish creative output.  ~  JH

"APPEARANCES CAN BE RELIEVING"

Sheila couldn't remember how she'd ended up here, hanging off the edge of a steep cliff, literally clinging to her life with aching hands; but not remembering didn't change the reality of the situation.

It's often said that in the face of impending death the entirety of one's life passes before one's eyes in an instant. If that were the case, Sheila had washed, dried, folded, and put away a lot of laundry in her life, and apparently nothing more than that. Indeed, she inexplicably found herself reliving not fond memories of friends and family, but of mundane housework.

The whirling dervish of dull images began spinning faster and faster before her glazed-over eyes, and momentarily Sheila let one of her hands drop from the edge, sending her body lurching away from the cliff face.

Surely, this was the end of Sheila. She made her peace with God in the length of a breath and waited for the inevitable fall.

Having shut her eyes a moment before, Sheila never saw the face that peered over the edge of the cliff at that moment. A hand made contact with her flailing arm, and in an instant she felt herself being pulled up and over the edge of the cliff to apparent safety.

Lying on her back, Sheila opened her eyes only to find herself staring into the face of the most gorgeous senior citizen man she'd ever laid eyes upon. He smiled broadly at her, and Sheila returned the greeting. It was love at first sight.

They married sixteen days later. Nine days after that, he passed away. He left her millions. She promptly hired a maid and never folded another piece of clothing again.

Stories # 18 & # 19: "How I Met Your Mother" & "Doctor Whew"

Just for kicks, I'm starting a new "series" of completely unrelated short stories all bearing titles that spoof (or repurpose, in the case of this first story) the titles of popular TV shows. Here are the first two I've written. Enjoy!  ~  JH

"HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER"

To begin with, I didn't mean to kill your mother. I was responsible for her death, but believe me, it was all a terrible accident, and I am so dreadfully sorry that it happened.

I hate to see death come to anyone, but it's especially hard to see a creature as beautiful as your dear mother meet her end. I know it won't make you feel any better now, but please know that she didn't suffer. From what I could tell, she most likely died on impact.

I'll admit that I was driving a little too fast, and my phone had just gone off, and yes, I was distracted. I never saw her coming, and she never saw me – until it was too late. I'm so sorry!

I know how hard it is to lose a loved one. And with you being so young and all, it makes it that much worse. You have your whole life ahead of you, but now you'll have to face whatever comes your way alone.

If I could take care of you myself, believe me, I would. But I live in a townhouse community, and there are strict bylaws about certain types of pets. The rules don't specifically say "NO DEER," but I think it's a given that wild animals of any kind are disallowed. So I will have to leave you here.

Don't worry about your mother now. I'll make sure that someone comes and takes her away so she doesn't have to lie here for too much longer.

I promise that I will be more careful in the future – the pain in your eyes compels me to do so. Please forgive me, dear fawn, for my negligence and for taking your mother from you.

"DOCTOR WHEW"

"Hello, who are you?" the doctor said.

"I'm Hugh, who are you?" I said from bed.

"I'm Doctor Whew," he simply stated.

"Pleased to meet you," I said, elated.

"Why am I here?" Doctor Whew inquired.

"I think I'm sick," I said. "And tired."

"You don't look sick," my doctor asserted.

"But I feel like death!" I wildly blurted.

"How would you know?" Doctor Whew proposed.

"Because I have a stuffy nose. And chest congestion to beat the band."

Doctor Whew arched his eyebrows and asked me, "And?"

"And my head is pounding. I might have a fever!"

"Have you tried," Doctor Whew asked, "A pain reliever?"

"I took two, Doctor Whew, but nothing helped!"

"Then why did you wait to call?" he yelped.

"Am I dying?" I asked, as I started to cough.

"You might be," he added, "Or it's tapering off. It's hard to determine unless you've been tested."

"You mean, like an X-ray?" I softly suggested.

"That's one way to tell, Hugh," Doctor Whew uttered.

"I'm scared of the outcome," I silently muttered.

"Buck up, Hugh," Whew said, adding, "Don't be a baby!"

"Alright, do the test," I said, "But, could we maybe –"

"Maybe what, Hugh? Sir, you're wasting my time!"

"Maybe," I said to Doctor, "Could we not have to rhyme?"

"Indeed," said the doctor. "I was tired of it, too."

"Thank you, Doctor Whew."

"You're so welcome, Hugh."

One Last Baker's Dozen Of Songs By Innovative, Imaginative, And Incredibly Interesting Icelandic Bands

This is the third (and will be the final) installment in a mini-series of posts exploring the modern music of Iceland. If you missed the previous installments, you can view them here and here. I won't rehash my previous intro or try to reword it, I'll just say...enjoy!

1)  Leaves  ~  "Whatever"

2)  Mezzoforte  ~  "Weather Ahead"

3)  Ourlives  ~  "Den Of Lions"

4)  Hera Björk  ~  "Je Ne Sais Quoi"

5)  Mum  ~  "Green Grass Of Tunnel"

6)  Ólafur Arnalds  ~  "Ljósið"

7)  Ólöf Arnalds  ~   "Crazy Car"

8)   Retro Stefson  ~  "Kimba"

9)  Seabear  ~  "I Sing I Swim"

10)  Vigri  ~  "Sleep"

11)  Steed Lord  ~  "Hear Me Now"

12)  Emiliana Torrini  ~  "Sunny Road"

13)  Birgitta  ~  "Open Your Heart"

Story # 17: "For Pete's Sake"

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I don't know where I get all these crazy ideas from, but once I think of them I can't help but to write them down. Such as they are. This one's plenty twisted, but I hope you'll like it anyway. If not, there's always next time.  ~  JH

"FOR PETE'S SAKE"

If you've never had a turtle bite off your toes one by one, let me tell you, you're really missing out. I, for one, am glad to have had the experience, even if it means that walking on that foot will be difficult, if not impossible, going forward.

I was a little nervous at first. I mean, I didn't go into it willingly, you understand. I was there, the turtle was there, he felt like biting, I have meaty feet, and the rest is history.

The pain was unbearable at first, but after awhile I just sort of forgot about it, lost in the wonder of watching the turtle going about his carnivorous task.

I took a few pictures – I don't know if you'd like to see them or not. Most people don't. For some reason.

You're probably wondering how I can speak so calmly about what most would deem a harrowing experience. I can't explain it myself. I know I should be horrified, scarred for life even – more than just the physical scars, I mean. But I'm not. In fact, I find myself longing to relive the experience, as strange as that may sound.

Which, as it turns out, is entirely possible. You see, after it was all said and done, I wouldn't let them kill the turtle. I had become as attached to him as he had been to me. These days, I consider him not only my pet, but my very dear friend as well.

So if, in the next week or the next year or whenever the notion may strike him, the turtle (whom I call Pete) feels the need to gnaw on something again – well, he's welcome to my other foot. What do I need it for anyway? Walking is optional, but loyalty never is.