Archive for the ‘Trent Walters’ Category
Job Interview
Wednesday, July 18th, 2007
— Drac. We meet again.
— I need a job, Doc. I’m so desperate I–
— I vant to suck your blood! Ha, ha.
— That’s an old joke.
— So you’re desperate for a job?
— An oldie but a goodie! Ha, ha. You got some delivery, Doc.
— Frankly, Drac…
— Name’s Dracula. The title’s Count. Say them together: Count Dracula…. But please call me Drac. My trusted associates do.
— Okay, Drac, but frankly a man of your qualifications isn’t needed in the hospital nursery.
— I’m overqualified?
— If you want to put it that way…
— What other way is there?
— Your experience in the mortuary, hospice, blood bank, ICU, and phlebotomy labs, don’t translate into work for a nursery. Besides, a few irregularities sprung up at your last positions.
— You’re discriminating. I’ll sue.
— Nobody’s said–
— Undead men got rights, too. You think I won’t sue?
— That’s nice, but it’s more your reputation.
— Have you checked my references?
— George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Thomas Jefferson were fine American citizens in their day but they’re dead now. Your reputation, I’m afraid, goes a little deeper than any man alive could dig.
— What do you mean?
— You were in jail forty years for murder.
— I’m a changed man. I was let out on good behavior.
— You were let out for the good behavior of the state of Georgia. The prison had trouble keeping inmates. The criminals disappeared, one by one, until only one mysteriously remained. The entire state of Georgia didn’t commit a crime during your sentence. They called the prison you stayed at, let’s see, “Death Row.”
— Aw, Doc. Give a fella a chance.
— With babies? These little fellas want to live. You’ve got to work where no one else wants to.
— I need youth. Rejuvenation. I need to savor the laughter of boys and girls. If you don’t give me a job, I’ll… I’ll…
— You’ll vant to suck my blood?
— I’ll show you! You… you…
— Speech impediment?
— Ow! What the heck?
— That? That’s my fang-proof turtleneck–a fine weave of cotton, wool, and sterling silver smelted from crosses found in abandoned sanctuaries. You like?
— I’d like a job.
— Youth ain’t what it used to be. Time to hang up your dentures and move on. Oh, Drac, don’t cry. You’ll smear your powder. Chin up. Listen, the unwanted pregnancy clinic opened a position in… What do you know? Gone already. Like a bat out of hell. Give the boy credit. A real go-getter.
Stones without Sticks
Thursday, July 5th, 2007
The Rolling Stone was his own man, so to speak, and traveled past lands unseen. The stone, being a stone, was stoned with the inordinate pride of having gathered no moss–his being’s essence unsullied by another being’s essence, which his most restless and rocky friends had firmly warned him against.
To scale new heights in his rollings, he started at the foot of a mountain that poked holes in passing clouds. For millennia (a figure rounded by reckoning since stones don’t count), he forded streams and outstripped boulders attempting the same ascent. Occasionally, a biped wandered by, and Stone leaped into the crack of its foot’s second skin. This saved him hundreds of years of bounding up the path. The free rides never lasted long, however; for in short order, the bipeds removed their skins (they obviously gathered another kind of moss).
Along the way, he heckled those stones who had given up the struggle–not only gathering moss but water, earth, grass, and trees, even! What odd, stiff, wooden creatures they were to stand heartlessly on his fellow stones. It served the trees right to die in a few hundred years.
The higher he climbed, the stranger the substances that his fellows had drowned in: water solid as stone! He chatted up a few, but they all seemed frozen in fear.
Finally, Stone reached the summit. He leaned over a steep precipice and roared his triumph at achieving his dream. That’s when he heard the triumphant yahoo of a biped which swallowed his pipsqueak roar. Before he could turn, the biped’s second skin kicked him over the ledge.
Stone cursed the biped–though the beasts’ lives were already abysmally ephemeral–until he realized this was another journey (if considerably faster) to tell his grandchildren about. Stone bounced and sparked other stones who, excited about Stone’s journey, joined him in the Great Fall. Despite the descent, it pinnacled Stone’s achievements: His fall was his meteoric rise: so many other stones leaping to join in Stone’s headlong, boisterously joyful fray–a veritable pride of the unmossed, so quintessentially, so unreservedly stoned in their stony abandon.
Panting and laughing, they landed at the foot of the mountain with a flurry of dust. What a rush! They spoke of the great race for eons to their children’s children. Eventually, Stone gathered moss, but it was nice not to be bald anymore.