The 13th Labour of Hercules

The video version of my Hundred Word Story for this week's challenge. 

Pride, Prejudice and Twitter

A 100 Word Story in Screenplay 

PLAIN DRAWING ROOM

JANE AND MR. DARCY ARE STANDING AT THE LIBRARY.

JANE

The social network isn’t just a medium of self-expression, it calls forth creativity that would not have otherwise been born...

MR DARCY

... and time not otherwise wasted.

(JANE smirks)

JANE

We hack off hunks of ourselves chronically crafting content that is convulsively consumed by hungry hordes viewing voyeuristically from the void!

MR DARCY bumps fists with JANE

MR DARCY

Incorrigible peeping Toms peering from timeless space, hungry ghosts gobbling down the guts we disgorge, zoned out zombies voraciously devouring endless tubs of all you can eat buttered brains, transfixed by the wit and witless wind.

JANE kisses MR DARCY

JANE

You’re feeding off me right now, so don’t forget to wipe your filthy mouth before you finish.

FADE TO BLACK

Idiot: A 100 Word Comic

Murder or Suicide

I've been thinking of virtual friends who've disappeared over the years and decided to repost this 100 Word Story from 2010.

Murder or Suicide?

"Was it murder or suicide?" I asked, as much to myself as to my new alt (who was who knows where at the other end of the conversation.)

"Don't be so dramatic" Majic replied, "For all we know she's sitting on a beach somewhere sipping  a  cold drink."

"Well, she's vanished off the face of the multiverse without a clue," I typed with staccato clicks. "So she's as good as dead here."

"That's a narcissistic way to look at it, isn't it?" Majic half-teased.

"Maybe," I sighed, gazing into space. "Which is why I ask, Was it murder or suicide?"

Original - The Comic

Comic version of this week's 100 Word Story

Original

"Original" is the joint prompt this week for both the Single Frame Stories and 100 Word Stories challenges. I ended up using the virtual set I created for the Single Frame Stories image to create this 100 Word Story video.  Here's the story in text:

Original - A 100 Word Story

I died again and it’s starting to bother me. I know it shouldn’t. We are taught that the Self is nothing more than identity and the continuity of our memory. So every time they restore an archived brain scan into one of my clones, it is the real I who awakens. 

But what about the lost memory of each death? All gone. A sniper’s laser. A drone’s warhead. An enemy’s blade. Abandoned in the black hole between my last scan and the last breath of each incarnation. They who died are dead and gone. Irrecoverable. May we rest in peace

Enduring Judgement in your Underwear

When I targeted Second Life marketing in a new parody video, I didn’t consider the collateral damage. The intention was to make fun of the airbrushed banners that tied together cool people with cool avatars. But the implication in the parody was that there was something inherently wrong or pitiable about someone who might not fit our consumer culture’s image of beauty and success. Here’s a 100 Word Story that tells a different tale:

 Enduring Judgement in your Underwear

The worst (and defining) experience of Joe’s life was the night at sixth grade camp when he was humiliated in front of a cabin full of classmates. Pants below his knees. Bent face down over a cot. Flogged with a broom handle. For the sin of being pudgy, pimpled, uncoordinated and socially awkward.

Thirty years later he sees yet another snarky “parody” about a fat, underwear clad, middle aged Second Life loser holed up in his mom’s basement. It still hurts. 

Joe sighs and gets back to work. The charity event he organized in Second Life is in full swing.

Pouty Avatar Selfies, Cliche and Metaphor

Enigmatic Pouty-Lipped Barbie Avatar Behind Walls of Her Own Creation

We hide behind walls for safety and peer out beyond. Sometimes we step outside.

The first idea that usually springs to mind from a Single Frame Stories prompt is a visual cliche like this image of a sad avatar Barbie hiding behind the walls of her low self-esteem.

Given the hundreds of thousands of enigmatic avatar selfies on Flickr, there's clearly a great psychological appeal to that kind of image. At least for those who post them. (If I had a nickel for every pouty-lipped avatar Barbie selfie I'd be a freaking millionaire.)

Maybe this phenomenon is a reflection of a yearning for an unrealized inner Muse buried mute and bound, deep in our subconscious. Perhaps it's a reflection of our unhealthy obsession with media's unrealistic idealized nubile female archetype, selling everything from face cream to Brazilian waxes to plastic surgery. Beats me.

Back to the intended topic of this post . . . what keeps me coming back each week to the Single Frame Stories Challenge is the process of working through an initial knee-jerk metaphor to aspects of the underlying concept that were not immediately evident. For instance, the second image extended the idea of walls we hide behind, to spaces of safety that we peer beyond, where others can see us from a safe distance. And as climbable barriers we can step outside of. Not earth shatteringly profound, but an interesting expansion of my original view.

Some people take issue with being directed by an external prompt rather than one's own inner calling. But the beauty of surrendering to an external prompt is the consistent opportunity to break out of our habitual framework and work on ideas we would not otherwise engage with. Works for me. I invite you to give the weekly challenge a try.

Self Centered

Entry for this week's Single Frame Stories Challenge

I found a dozen decades old journals the other night that had been hiding in a box on a basement shelf. As I skimmed through hundreds of pages of deep thoughts and passionate opinions, it felt like I was reading someone else’s diaries. I had no memory of writing them and only scattered resonance with the ideas and opinions expressed.

Although there’s a correlation between the person I am today and the author of those journals, if I could teleport through time and meet him, the only thing in common would be our name, shared memories and a passing resemblance.

The Art of Balance

An entry for this week's Single Frame Stories Challenge

The art of balance is all about managing weight. At first thought, taking on the lightest possible load seems the best strategy. It’s not.

Gravity requires sufficient mass to ground us within its stabilizing embrace. Without enough well-arrayed ballast, a stray gust of wind would send us flying topsy turvy; a passing fancy could shanghai us into insensible service; or a glancing blow from the hand of fate might knock us down into dark despair.

Over time, a well-weighted garland of burdens strengthens the will, opens the heart and fosters an equilibrium that’s immune to misfortune or boon.

Why Me?

Underlying crowd scene photo courtesy James Cridland

I’ve lived a pretty charmed life for the past fifty years. I’ve never known hunger, grew up in a loving home, always had a safe place to live, worked at jobs with opportunity for growth and learning, had a lifetime of satisfying creative pursuits, enjoyed twenty years and counting in a great marriage, and have two children who are thriving.

I got some unexpected bad health news recently and thought for a moment, “Why me?” It only took an instant to realize that the better question was “Why not me?” No one is exempt from the radical uncertainty of life.

Transmuting Poison Into Medicine

When the experience of personal suffering
opens the heart to compassion for others,
poison becomes medicine.

The image above is my entry for this week's Single Frame Stories Challenge. The prompt was "weapon."

Here's an accompanying 100 word story:

Some medical treatments work by attacking the body. Vaccines include a dead or weakened germ to trigger the production of antibodies.  Allergy shots inject minute amounts of allergens into our bloodstream to elicit desensitization. Chemotherapy eliminates cancer by killing fast growing cells. In each case, the weapon of poison is used as medicine.

One of the most pervasive psychological afflictions humans suffer from is self-centeredness. The poison of personal pain, illness and misfortune can act as a medicine if we use it to generate compassion for the countless others around the world who experience similar or even greater suffering.

And finally, the video version:

Killing Time - Audio Version

Killing Time

My maternal grandmother lived into her eighties, her last months bed-bound in a nursing home. Up until the end, she cared about her appearance and insisted she have her hair and makeup done. I couldn’t imagine what comfort she found in the mirror’s reflection of sparse hair and time-eroded skin and features.

Almost twenty years later, the image I see in my own mirror appears decades younger than the person who looks back from a photo of myself snapped moments before.

The permanent self is an illusion. It feels like I’m killing time, but time is killing me.

Blackout Prayer

Blackout Prayer

Bare trees. Sunlight fading. Snow falling.

The power’s been out for hours now. The slain sounds of the modern world arise like ghosts, manifesting in the empty space they’ve left behind.

I’m haunted in the still silence by myriad gifts that are almost invisible in their ever-presence. My family’s love. My body’s health. My clear mind. The countless comforts of our First World prosperity.

What a waste . . . what a shame . . . to only appreciate the bounty of life in needful retrospect.

May we be fully present within our lives. May we savor the grace of each moment in conscious awareness.

Written after last Sunday's 12" snowstorm and 8 hour power failure.
Entry in this week's 100 Word Stories Challenge. Prompts: "Falling" and "Normal."

Borders: The Video

Vanilla Sex

Entry for this week's Single Frame Stories Challenge
The prompt is "vanilla"

Vanilla Sex

A 100 Word Story

Vanilla’s earliest sexual memory was a horrifying night in 6th Grade Camp. Cinnamon, Cayenne and Cardamom had learned the hateful taunt, “Vanilla Sex,” and decided to humiliate him in front of the other spices. They held Vanilla down, tore off his wrapper, and let the taunting circle of classmates inhale his sweet, innocent fragrance.

As the jury filed in to announce his fate, Vanilla thought back to that childhood trauma and how it had become the defining event of his life.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“Yes, your Honor.”

“We the jury find the defendant guilty on all counts.”

Border Crossings

Entry for this week's 100 Word Stories Challenge. The prompt was "Border.
Photo courtesy Shelly and Donald Rubin Foundation.
Best viewed in larger size.

We transit countless borders
on the path between birth and death:
a severed cord; a breath of air;
a piercing cry; a mother's breast;
a leaning stand; a stumbling step;
a spoken word; the alphabet;
a sweetest kiss; a cap and gown;
a broken heart; a wedding vow;
a newborn child; a parent's grave;
an empty nest; a spouse estranged;
a hospice bed; the end of pain.

Waves from an endless ocean
Emerging from its infinite depths,
Rising towards the sky
Falling back to sea.
Form is emptiness.
Emptiness is form.
Such are we.

Gate Gate Paragate Parasamgate Bodhi Svaha!

Cats, Pagans, Racists and Swimming Pools

Video version of my entry in this week's 100 Word Stories Challenge.

I started writing an introduction to the St. Patrick's Day story and ended up with a new 100 Word Story focused on the locale. Believe it or not, it's another work of non-fiction.

South Jackson in the Shade

I lived in South Jackson, Mississippi for a decade in the 1980’s, over a period of three excruciating years. South Jackson was the least progressive part of town, a place where black men were called “boy” and white folks explained, "it was okay to use the word 'nigger' if the colored acted that way." I spent my days in a one room office managing the telemarketing empire of a half-crazed, coke-snorting, hooker-loving, self-made entrepreneur with $250,000 in tax avoidance cash hidden in the attic of his Beverly Hillbillies McMansion. Yeah. He had a cement pond.

Grief, Gratitude and Compassion

Entry in this week's Single Frame Stories Competition. The prompt was "blur."

Kisagotami’s beautiful son, the light of her life ran into the street and was struck dead by a runaway cart. She wandered the village in a blur, child clutched to her heart.

She went to the Buddha for an herb to revive her son.  He sent her into the village to find a mustard seed from a household that had never suffered the death of a loved one.

Of course, there was not a single home without loss. She found that the living are few, but the dead are many. Her personal grief was transformed into compassion for all beings.

A 100 Word Story based on a traditional Buddhist Parable