Random Object Prompts

He knew he should be more excited, more grateful, and he wished he could be, but he just couldn't work up a whole lot of enthusiasm for Cocoa Puffs. He was sure Miranda was trying to make him feel better by taking him back to a simpler time, and he appreciated the gesture, he really did, but it just wasn't the right cereal. Cocoa Pebbles were where it was at back in the day. The cereal itself wasn't all that great and got kinda soggy, but it made the most chocolaty milk he'd ever tasted. Nothing could touch it on that one. Odd, now that he thought of it, that his mom wouldn't let him eat Cookie Crisp, forbade it on principle, but had no problem with Fred and Barney making a beverage with more chocolate in it than... a thing that... friggin' has a lot of chocolate in it. But then, his mom also forbade him from drinking Mountain Dew because it looked too much like pee. Hmm... Now that you mention it, I kinda have to pee now. But he couldn't just jump out of bed now, he'd hurt her feelings. She worked hard on cooking this breakfast in bed... well, okay, hard for her. So he held in his pee and ate up his Cocoa Puffs, which he had always thought looked like dog food (the only reason they were cool in 4th grade). Because he cared. Because she cared.

"I never thought much of the courage of a lion-tamer. Inside the cage he is at least safe from people." ~ George Bernard Shaw

The phone was flashing. I had eight messages. Stifling the urge to lay my head on the table and groan I turned away from it, trying to ignore it. It's only 6 in the morning, I reason with myself, too early to listen to this. No need to hear Anthony calling at least three times to see if I'm home yet, and if I am why am I avoiding him? No need to listen to my grandmother calling me ostensibly to know how my trip went, when we both know she just wants to pry into my love life. There's probably a message from school, telling me that I missed some classes- which I know, I was away and told them so. But they have short attention spans and probably forgot. I'm barely back, my tan is not yet faded and already I am weary. I'll listen to the messages, but after that I'll need another vacation.

The second she walked in the door and kicked off her heels she collapsed onto the bed. Of course it had to rain today - didn't it always rain at funerals? In the films everyone always had dour black umbrellas and retired to the parlor afterward for tea. In real life you're sinking up to your ankles in mud, thankful that the funeral director is holding his black umbrella over you since you didn't think, couldn't think, to bring your own, but still hating the man for staying so close when you don't even know him. And afterwards you all go out for a beer that doesn't do anything to warm you up and spend the whole time craving the cigarette you can't smoke around your family. When you finally get home you're exhausted and chilled and even though you want nothing more than to get out of that black dress you still don't think it's appropriate to just throw on some sweats and get on with your day.

She couldn't even get into bed properly. Instead she just rolled the patchwork quilt around her and heaved a sigh. The bits of yarn that held it all together, day-glo orange and frayed from the wash, pressed into her hips. The fabric itself was practically disintegrating from age and use and stray threads tickled her feet. It was, she had to admit, a hideous excuse for a blanket. Squares of pastel flowers and '70s geometrics all held together by a field of brown stripes. That's grandma, she thought, didn't care about what her clothes looked like but couldn't bear to just throw them away when they'd run their course. Was grandma, she remembered. How many hours had she spend cutting and sewing these squares before the blanket was tucked in a closet for twenty years, just because she didn't want to waste some scraps of fabric?

And laying there in her black dress, feet cold and hair still wet, Grace realized that her ugly old quilt was the only thing she had left of her grandmother.

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.
"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."

ML for Philadelphia

On the morning of September 23, every computer that I put my hands on apparently became inhabited by the merry soul of a 13 year old boy and converted (wrongly, I might add) every answer to every equation into some sort of lewd reference to a body part. I began to wonder about the state of mathematics, its logical nature, its unalterable grip, how 2+2 always has and always will equal 4. Calculating the acceleration of various objects as they approach the event horizon of a black hole should not give one 8008. Even the state of the art, BRER system, running in the MIT Physics department, the (truth-be-told) billion dollar BRER system, upon my laying of hands and entering the data, outputted a big, fat raspberry of an answer.
Less than one month before I presented my paper to the annual meeting of the Astrophysics Society of North America, less than one month before my entire future, the next phase of my academic career, let's face it, less than one month before I would either have the door opened or slammed forevermore in my face, the laws of mathematics, the laws of calculation, the very order of the universe was stripped from my grasp, beyond my control, out of my life.

An unopened package of fishnet stockings glared at her across the room. What was she supposed to do, dress up and look like a whore like all of her "friends"? None of her supposed friends cared about her or anyone else -- or, for that matter, themselves. Teenagers always found a way to focus on the things that adults looked down upon, and this was evidence. They'd been trying to convince Maris about the new group of people they were hanging out with, but Maris wasn't stupid. This was some crazy-ass cult that was planning on testing their technology, that was planning on sleeping. They were all addicted, and her "friends" would be too.

She ripped open the cheap package of black pantyhose and pulled them over her thin legs. If she was going to be the only one awake, she'd have to at least look nice.

NaNo 09: ? —0%

I decided I will never, ever, skip weekend classes ever again.

It was this past Sunday that my Art History class was taking a trip to the UPenn Museum of Archeology and Anthropology to examine the Egyptian, Greek, and Roman works. It was the moment I woke up, half dazed and hair on ends, that I received a text message from a friend inviting me to work together on our project. I never handled mornings well, even if the alarm clock read 12:30 in the afternoon, but I remained in bed as I pondered my options. Either I forced myself out of bed to trek a half an hour walk to the museum, or I took the elevator down four floors to work on an important project instead. Of course, the latter seemed the better option, but I was one for enjoying museums. Plus, it was going to be for class.

And then, that was when the thought hit me. I had taken Art History during my Senior year of high school, seen the Egyptian and Greek sculpture at the Metropolitan Museum of art, wrote a paper on an exhibit of artifacts from Pompeii, and memorized every sculpture in the National Gallery of Art. Emily, you have that course practically memorized. What the hell are you hesitating for?!

So, the afternoon went exactly to my needs and pleasure. And, the next day, just when I was entering the classroom, my teacher made an announcement to the class. "Alright, everyone, write down on this piece of paper the work of art that you picked from the museum! For your assignment due next class, you have to write an outline for a thousand word paper explaining that works significance in art history!"

And just to spite me further, they had no online gallery of their exhibit.