An Evening with Will

Will entered the room, holding a sandwich, looking a bit lost and confused. As he took slow, cautious bites of pastrami, he stared intently out the window. "Hey, Jake," he asked, turning to face me with a slight frown on his face, "what time is it?"

"It's 7:30," I said, looking up from my laptop. "Why, what's up?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," he said, looking down at a device on his wrist. "I think the timing mechanism is screwed up." He stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, and messed with a knob on the side. Giving it a few flicks for good measure, he walked out of the room.

Whatever. That sandwich did look good, though. I put my computer on the coffee table, and walked into the kitchen to make it. When I went back into the living room, there was Will, waiting for me.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"I dunno, quarter 'til eight?" I said, confused.

"Well, crap, that can't be good," he said furrowing his brow.

"What, that it took me fifteen minutes to make a sandwich?" I said, confused.

"No, that...wait, sandwich? Can I have that?" Before I had time to react, he took the sandwich off of my plate, and left the room. I stood there, opened mouthed for a bit, then set the plate down and opened the door to his room. It was completely empty, except that I had just watched him walk in here. I searched the room, but the only thing out of the ordinary was his workbench. At least, I think. I'm pretty sure the clutter had grown.

I went back into the living room, only to find Will waiting for me again. "What time is it?" he asked. "It's 7:50," I said, glancing at my watch. "What are you doing?"

"Failing," he said in response, flinging himself onto the couch. He looked around briefly for the TV remote, gave up, and propped his feet up next to my computer. "We've got a few minutes. Pull up a seat," he said, patting the piece of couch next to him. I stared at him with a confused look on my face, but he wasn't paying attention to me anymore. I grabbed the remote from underneath the pillow, and turned it to the sports game.

"It's 8:20," he said, looking up from the TV during half time. I looked up as well; sure enough, there was a second Will, walking into the room looking confused.

"I screwed this up, didn't I?" asked otherWill, sighing.

"Big time," replied Will. "Just wait it out naturally."

Both of the Wills left the room; my Will went into the kitchen, while otherWill went into his room. Not more than a few minutes later, yet another Will entered the room, this time through the front door. "It's a great day for science!" he said, with a sort of contageous excitement I hadn't seen the entire evening. "Don't wait up, Jake," he said, walking past me into his room. "I'm going to be testing out my time machine!"

I waited five more minues before yelling, "Hey, Will, you're gone!"

"Thanks, Jake," he said, walking past me to head back into his room.

"Anytime," I said, feeling much smarter now that I had figured out what had just been going on this evening. "Any idea what went wrong?"

"Not a clue," he said, closing the door. " Something is affecting the accuracy. I'll let you know if I figure it out. Or, better yet, if I do figure it out, I'll go back and let you know, so you can tell me the answer so I don't have to waste time troubleshooting it."

I briefly tried to consider how that might work, but it gave me a headache. Man, I hate physics.

Titlesitter

"Honey, what's this on the fridge?"

"Oh, that? That's my sitter list. Joyce is taking her family to Massachusetts this week, so I'm sitting her house."

"Okay, but that's not what this thing says. It's a whole list. Petsitter, Plantsitter, Mailsitter, Newspapersitter, Toiletsitter, Bedsitter, LivingroomrugSitter... this list has got to be like... Jesus, Honey, how many pages is this?"

"Housesitting is just the summary. You're looking at the condensed list. She went through and systematically categorized every object in her house, and then added the word 'sitter' to the end."

"Well, alright. So, what, she comes back Friday?"

"That's it?"

"What do you mean?"

"She creates a lengthy and psychotic list, and all you want to know is when she comes back? What does it take to surprise you?"

"Threedayoldfrostbittenleftoverssitter?"

Russian Summer

Every summer, my parents would take me up to the family dacha overlooking the lake. Some of my best childhood memories come from that time, though I will never forget the day I met that poor man in the woods. "You don't see me!" he yelled. "In Soviet Russia, me see you! Bwah hah hah hah!" It was the worse case of Internet meme-poisoning I'd ever seen.

Fashion Show

"Now we turn to Ms. Komenki's outfit. Judges, your thoughts?"

"Yes, I was rather intrigued by your choice in stylization. It appears as though you've taken a bright yellow raincoat, cut out large patches in random areas, and then placed it over a thick, fur coat so tightly that the dark fur is bulging out from the coat in large, hairy chunks."

"An interesting choice indeed. Can you explain your muse, Ms. Komenki?"

"But of course. With this piece, I was looking to make a statement about the odd relationship between the natural and the artificial, the environmental and the industrial. The fur, representing nature, protrudes forward from the outfit to signify its importance. The plastic, representing the artificial, lays flat and unimportant, yet takes up the majority of the surface area, given its high prevalence. The bright neon yellow makes a vivid statement, while the rich chocolate fur clashes delightfully, illustration the drastic opposition of the two elements."

Rota? Seriously?

"Ro...ta...", he said, in a tired, wheezing voice.

"Rota?" repeated his family. "What...what does that even mean?" They whispered among themselves, trying to figure out what their ailing grandfather could possibly have meant. They had been hoping he would explain his last wishes as they stood by his side; he had left them no will to divide his estate. But his young wife was sitting at his side, holding his hand, and refused to let them stress grandfather out too much. As if it weren't obvious grandfather was too unhealthy to speak. Still, if he died without a will, his nutjob wife would keep the good stuff, and give the rest of it away to charity.

"Ro...rota," he said, closing his eyes. Grandfather took one last breath, and then died.

"What does that even mean?" shrieked Cousin Mel, who had been hoping for enough money to move out of her poor excuse of an apartment. "I haven't even heard of that before!"

"It's an island in Spain," said Uncle Luiz. "He obviously meant that I, as the only Spaniard in the room, should get his inheritence."

"Bull!" replied Aunt Martha. "Rota is the word for 'wheel' in Latin. He means to award me for my Classical Studies by giving me his inheritence. You know how much he loved collecting priceless ancient artifacts."

"Shove it, both of you!" replied his butler. "'Rota' is the term he used to describe our time schedules. He obviously intends to give his inheritence to his faithful staff. The whole lot of you never bothered to give him so much as a postcard! A sorry excuse for family, the whole lot of you!"

They continued arguing for some time, before his wife, who had been at his side sobbing the entire time, asked them all to leave. She was so genuinely distraught that they all left, feeling slightly guilty.

That night, they all developed a severe case of diarrhea, due to the rotavirus.

Working on a Creative Writing class project. Time stamp reserved, to be used later.

Love in the Workplace- a Helpful Hint

I've always found it a bit difficult to deal with awkward relationships in the workplace. It's hard to break it to your coworker that, sorry, I'm just not all that into you. Even worse is when they hang on to their crush, in the hopes that you will one day change your mind. I like to make sure that my coworkers know exactly where I stand. Observe:

"Hey Julie, may I borrow your stapler? I only ask because you are a valued coworker whom I would never consider dating."

"Betty, did you get the memo I sent you? I left it on your desk, much in the exact way I will never be leaving you love letters."

"Susan, here's that machine instrumentation report you wanted. Also, I could never love someone like you."

The Arcane Arborists

"Oh, what now?" muttered Frank, looking out into his backyard. These were, by far, the worst landscapers he had ever heard of. He had listened closely to all of the stories from his neighbors; Coniro and Sons would waste your water and watch your cable, Major Mulch planted sickly trees, and so on. He had never heard anyone complain about the Arcane Arborists, but after three days, he could only guess this was because no one had hired them before.

He'd been pleased with them on the first day; the day they brought out surveying equipment, and went over his yard making diagrams and graphs and plots. Then he realized they weren't making maps so that they could plan his new yard with architectural detail. No, they had been mapping out the ebb and flow of the ley lines in the area, for some dumb hippie reason.

They didn't even work on the second day. They phoned him up, five minutes before they were supposed to show up, and told him that they wouldn't be able to make it to work that day. When he asked why, they told him that it was the peak day of Mars sitting in a house unsuitable for work. Nothing he could say could convince them otherwise, not that he didn't spend a good half hour trying.

And now, here he was paying out of his pants for the four of them to be here, and only one guy was working. It was simply unbelievable. He stormed out into his yard, ready to let them have it. "Can I help you, sir?" one of them had the guts to ask.

"You sure can!" he shrieked. "You can get your lazy butts back to work! Just what am I paying you for?"

"I'm sorry sir, but that's not how it works," he said, patiently. "Jim here is the Mover, so he's digging up the dirt. I'm the Giver, I'll be ensuring your plants get the nutrition they'll need. Steve is the Grower, he'll... well, I bet you can work that one out. And Ben here is our Condemner. He kills weeds and harmful pests. Obviously, we can't all work at the same time."

"Oh, you can't, can you?" commented Frank, crossing his arms. "I must have you guys confused with able-bodied young men who I've hired to landscape my lawn. Clearly I'm mistaken. So either get back to work, or get off of my property!"

"Sir, do you really want us to do that?" asked Ben, raising his eyebrows as he stared from behind his coffee mug.

"Of course I'm sure! I am not paying you to stand around! Now grab a shovel and get to work!"

"If you insist," replied Ben, shrugging his shoulders. He reached forward and tapped him lightly on the forehead. Frank was dead before his body hit the ground.

Emergency Curse Removal Ward

I hate my job. Mind you, the kingdom is paying 20 coins an hour to sit here and I'm getting credit toward my apprenticeship, so I can't complain too much. It's just that my job sounds so much more glamourous than it actually is. Everyone thinks medicine is this amazing field of study where you save tons of people's lives every day. Personally, I've yet to feel any sort of sense of accomplishment.

Some sort of merchant walks up to me, grasping his arm and wincing in pain. "Witch's curse?" I ask, looking up at him. He rolls up his sleeve to show me that his arm is a solid shade of blue. Standard case of Cerulean Chromocapilarium. Probably caught it when he triggered someone's anti-theft charm, but I'm required to give him the benefit of the doubt. He's faking most of the pain, too, but I let him have his fun.

"Sword of Healing," I say, looking down the corridor to see if Sir Saepe is was back from lunch. That's the only cure I've ever offered. I have yet to encounter anything that a standard sword of healing can't cure. They could eliminate my position entirely, and just have Saepe stab anyone who enters. But, no, they want someone to fill out the paperwork they require from us, so they can ignore it and put it in extra-planar storage somewhen.

"I'm sorry?" he said, looking quite alarmed. I sigh. He's a foreigner; probably a pampered brat who had Daddy's cleric treat his wounds with fancy incantations. It's impractical and old fashioned, so of course the wealthy still swear by it. It's a great way to show off one's wealth. But for peasants, the Paladin style of holy magic is all they've ever known.

"It's very hard to explain, sir," I say, launching into a scripted speech, "but if you would be kind enough to trust our hardworking staff, we'll..."

"Hard working staff!?" he cut in. "This place is a shack in the middle of a dumpy village! There are only two of you!" Thankfully, the merchant yelled in a shrill enough voice to catch Saepe's attention.

"Sir, this is a house of healing. I'll thank you to keep your voice down." The merchant turned red in the face, but his sharp intake of breath was enough time to allow Saepe to cut off the irate rant before it had started.

In one swift move that I've yet to grow tired of watching, Saepe unsheathed his sword and plunged it directly into the merchant's chest. He choked out a gasping breath, and then fell to his knees, clutching his heart.

"Treatment administered," I said, holding back all of things I'd wanted to say. "Thank you, and have a nice day." I watched with a smirk as he slowly began to register what had happened. The broadsword had left no mark, as if it had been an illusion; but his blue arm curse had been dispelled by the thrust. The merchant left highly confused, making bewildered inspections of his cured arm, and then of his unpierced shirt and unharmed chest. I couldn't help but laugh.

Okay, so I lied. I love my job.

Smoldering Pants

I could see Evan walking down the street well before he reached my house. He was one of the last people I would have expected to get suckered into the fad, but there it was. Evan was wearing a pair of smoldering pants; the soft glow of the embers illuminated his legs in the evening twilight.

"Dude, seriously?" I said, once he was within earshot.

"Hey, at first I didn't think they'd be all that comfortable, since they're made with a woven wool / kevlar combination. But the fabric isn't nearly as stiff as you would imagine, and the effect is kinda nice," he said, putting his hands into the smoldering pockets.

"That doesn't change the fact that your pants are on fire!" I replied.

"Yeah," said Evan, "I'll admit the heat takes a bit to get used to, but the fire is what makes these pants awesome! I mean, the warranty lasts for six months, so..."

"Fi-re!" I repeated, stressing both syllables.

"Well, okay, yes," he replied, rolling his eyes. "But if you follow proper leg moistening procedures, and you wear the recommended protective underwear, the chances for third degree burns are surprisingly small. And it's better if you don't buy the knockoff labels. Abercombustable and Flint includes a free E.R. visit with each purchase."

"You bought a pair of pants that comes with a medical voucher!?"

"Dude, you just don't get fashion," said Evan, distracted by his shirt. The bottom hem of his polo had caught fire, and was starting to smoke. He recited random bits of peer pressure back at me, before ultimately having to stop, drop, and roll on the sidewalk to prevent his shirt from going up in flames.

I couldn't help but laugh to see him standing there. He looked like an idiot standing there, glases askew, in his disheveled and charred shirt, trying to look cool in his smoldering pants despite the giant honking rubber boots. "Whatever, dude," I said, shaking my head. "Let's just go."