Throwback (Wednes)day: This Squirrely World

Have I mentioned that I was a troublemaker throughout my school years?  One day in 11th grade, our teacher left us with a substitute and a writing assignment.  I really didn't feel like doing the writing assignment.  Everyone in the class secretly agreed that we'd somehow add in squirrels into our essays.  The rest of the class wrote the proper essay and snuck in a squirrel reference, and I wrote...this.

This Squirrely World

I was going to write on a different topic, but it was really depressing and I hate being depressed.  I therefore decided to disregard that idea, even though I had an excellent opening sentence.  Bright and cheery things are much better to write about.  So here is the brightest and the cheeriest incident that actually occurred about which I am willing to write.

When I was in fourth grade, I used to wait outside my apartment building every morning for the school van to pick me up.  I studied the grass and the trees for lack of anything better to do.  One morning a squirrel caught my attention.  At first it was just running around the base of a tall tree, but then it stopped.  I watched in fascination as the squirrel stood up on its hind legs and supported itself with one of its forelegs against the tree.  It looked just like a human causally leaning against a wall.  I half expected the squirrel to cross its legs.

When I reached seventh grade, I had a teacher who was afraid of squirrels.  Directly outside her classroom window was a tree that was home to an entire family of squirrels.  Every time she caught sight of one of the creatures, she would shudder and turn away.  If a window was open, she would get very antsy and tense until it was closed, barring all squirrels from entering her safe haven.  She was definitely terrified of squirrels.  Oh well.  That's what you get from growing up in New York. J

Squirrels are actually not terribly smart, and they never learned the basics of safety: only cross streets in the crosswalks and when the light is green.  Squirrels just don't get it.  That's why so many of them wind up as road decorations.  Even so, they are really cute.

If everyone in the world was like squirrels, few technological advancements would occur, people would keep dying off from their own stupidity, and disease would quickly spread through the rotting carcasses.  Thankfully, humans have more sense than squirrels.

Squirrels can actually be quite useful.  A parent can point at a squirrel and say to her child, "See that squirrel, Katie?  Never do what that squirrel is doing.  We only cross streets at the crosswalk when the light is green."  And then the children will learn.  "Look at that dead squirrel in the street, Katie.  He wasn't following the basic rules of safety."

Okay, so maybe this isn't as bright and happy as I had predicted.  Oops.

My various experiences with squirrels have taught me not to model my behavior after that of animals.  Even though they sometimes show human like characteristics, they are not humans.  Personally, I think that I'm better at not getting myself killed than the animals are.

So, about this contraction thing.  Oh, yeah, and this 'thing' thing.  I agree that contractions are not appropriate in formal writing.  But come on, who would actually consider this piece to be formal?  I certainly don't.  And I will agree that the word 'thing' is about as non-specific as you can get, but sometimes it just fits really well.

Back to squirrels.  As cute as they are, they aren't very smart/  And they can be a real nuisance if they get into your attic or your walls and wake people up in the middle of the night.

There are many people in this world who are just like squirrels.  I think that the human race would be better off without them.  Unfortunately, to search out such people and kill them would be too hard and unethical.  Also, it is impossible to insure that none of them reproduce.  And then how can we decide how squirrely is too squirrely?  It is completely impossible.

 
Squirrels shall live on in the human race until the end of time.

Throwback Thursday: A Gyro's Tale

Sometimes when you go back to read old things, you realize you were probably the bane of your English teacher's existence.  The following story was what I submitted when my 9th grade teacher gave us an assignment to write a story about a hero.  Of course I had to be cheeky, so not only did I write about a gyro (okay, I know it's not exactly the same pronunciation but close enough), I also utilized a book of obscure words that we had lying around the house.

Enjoy this strange and awkward story of 14-year-old me!

A Gyro's Tale

I have a problem with dromomania. It seems as if I haven’t stopped traveling since the day that I started. Well, not until now, that is. Someone found me and stuck me on this cold shelf along with some others like me. Except, they aren’t really like me at all. Sure, we all look the same (well, I do look a little travel-worn), but I am the only dromomaniac among us. I have tried speaking with the others, but they just do not seem to understand. After trying my best to explain myself to them numerous times, they ceased speaking with me. I feel so lonely….

My problems all started when I was banned from ever returning to my birthplace, Gyroshima. You see, I had a little too much zwetschenwasser one night and I got a little rowdy. I am ashamed to say that I turned cannibal; one of my fellow gyros was gone within minutes. He never even had a chance. Thankfully, my memory of this incident is rather sketchy, at least partially due to the fact that I was intoxicated. Unfortunately, however, no one else’s memory was sketchy at all.

My friends and family expelled me from my own home. They spit their sauce at me and made me all soggy. I left with my few belongings tucked into my pouch, and wandered from city to city. Word of my awful deed preceded me, and I found myself shunned by gyros that I had never even met. I grew more depressed by the day, even by the hour.

I soon found myself in the coastal city of Osaka. The docks attracted me, and I soon found myself among the hustle and bustle along them. I looked longingly at the water – it was just out of my reach – and contemplated getting someone to toss me in. The water would ruin me in a moment, completely destroy me in two. It seemed the quickest way to be out of my misery, but I decided against it. Even now, I have my regrets over that.

I managed to get passage on a ship headed for the United States of America, a far off place of which I had heard. I had to sell nearly all of my belongings in order to collect enough money for the passage fee, but I managed. I lost track of time on the ship; it could have taken me days or months to reach my destination.

We landed in the city of San Francisco. As I disembarked, I marveled at how different it was from Gyroshima and all the other cities I had seen. Everything was built in a completely different manner; nothing looked the same.

I remained in San Francisco for several days before moving on. I traveled from place to place for several months, unable to stay in one place for longer than a day. I began to suffer from halitosis, and I noticed that everyone started avoiding me. This greatly distressed me, so I decided to keep moving.

After many months of traveling, I came to a city called Chicago. It seemed even stranger to me than did San Francisco. I said it did; it no longer does. I have long since gotten used to it. But I get ahead of myself.

As I wandered around the city, I marveled at how many gyros I saw, and envied them when I saw them being eaten. Oh, how I longed for a life like theirs! A cool place to rest and an appreciative mouth waiting! I passed by places that had signs in the windows announcing that you could buy a gyro inside. After a few hours of aimlessly wandering the streets, I finally stepped into one of these shops. Tables and chairs were scattered about, and towards the back I saw a glass case full of gyros. Perhaps here I would find better luck.

I climbed up onto one of the many tables and settled down to wait. I hoped that eventually someone would come and eat me. As I waited, and waited, and waited, I observed the other gyros. They were in much better shape than I, and as I watched, people came into the shop and bought them. Not a single person even glanced in my direction.

I would have jumped off the table and ended everything right then and there, but an old man came over and picked me up. I recognized this man; he was the one that stood behind the glass case and handed people gyros. He handled me gently and probed my entire body. The man grimaced and carried me back behind the glass case. To my horror, he opened me up and removed my innards. I started trembling with fear as he threw them into a large, foul-smelling can. When he returned, he was holding a new set of innards. He carefully arranged everything inside my shell and closed me up again.

That is the story of how I ended up in this cold glass case, off to the side all by myself. The old man takes good care of me; he changes my innards twice a week, and always makes sure that I am comfortably placed in the case. But customers come and go, and my companions disappear and are replaced by new. I am never given a second glance.

Ah, here comes another customer. I have given up hope that anyone will ever want me. I am convinced that I will die here, rotting away with no one to mourn me when I am gone. I wonder which gyro this customer will choose. Maybe he’ll choose Fred, he’s nice and healthy. Wait…he’s looking right at me! This can’t be happening. Oh, the old man is picking me up! At last, someone wants me.

The customer is carrying me over to his table and setting me down. He is unwrapping me, being very careful not to spill out any of my innards. He is lifting me to his mouth.

See, the vanquishing gyro comes!
Stomach acid, beat your drums!

Throwback Thursday: Short Story

With the wave of terror attacks that has hit Israel over the past week-plus, I find it difficult to concentrate on writing for myself or writing anything remotely happy (not that my usual work is happy, I actually have incredible difficulty writing happy stories).  So for this Throwback Thursday post, here is a short piece I wrote right when I turned 19.  I don't remember what exactly precipitated this story but I have two distinctly different versions of it and I like this one better.  It seems fitting, for current events.  May we know sorrow no more.

In a Puff of Smoke

A never-ending column of concentration camp inmates, all ages and sizes, shuffling five-abreast down a road flanked by two barbed-wire fences.  There is no color; even the sun is cold and grey.  The column moves very slowly.  All sway side to side as a single unit, in rhythm with their footfalls, which sound as one.  The guards in the watchtowers are motionless.

Slowly, starting with a single inmate, there arises a low moan and wailing.  With each additional voice, into the hundreds and thousands and millions, a funeral dirge begins to make itself heard with uniquely intertwining harmonies.  All play some part in the dreadful song, down to the smallest Jewess dragging her feet at the edge of the group.  There is a beauty in the sound, and great, great sadness.  Such sadness and despair the world has seen too many times before, and shall revisit countless more times.

              

The road, like the column, seems to be never-ending.  But always in the distance can be seen a great smokestack, towering over the squat building at its base.  A steady black stream of smoke pours forth and separates into smaller puffs.  Upon closer inspection, each puff forms a name.  One says Freida; another reads Menachem.  But in the end, they all dissipate and disappear forever.  There are no exceptions.

          

Although each individual’s eyes are fixed ahead or on the ground, their hearts, as one, reach out to our Father in Heaven.

        

Some color begins to appear in the sky.  First one man sees, then two, then ten, then one hundred.  As more faces are upturned, the color begins to brighten and solidify into the shape of a city.  Mouths that have forgotten how to smile hesitatingly remember, and voices that have forgotten the sounds of joy are suddenly gleeful as all recognize the city to be Jerusalem.  Her radiance warms the hungry faces and brightens the dulled eyes.  The myriad footfalls become lighter and lighter until the column is dancing, newfound strength injected into spindly legs.

Jerusalem! they shout.  Here is our salvation at last!

               And they dance closer to the crematoria.

Our Father has heard our prayers and answered us! they sing.

               And they dance closer to the crematoria.

We shall finally be free! they cry.

               And they dance closer to the crematoria.

The group surges forward, conscious only of the brilliant Jerusalem hanging in the ash-laden sky.  Their bodies, abused for so many years, yearn only to rest.  But their souls – their souls are yet strong.

              

And still they stream forward.

        

The first rows reach the crematorium, eyes still skyward.  It is but the work of a moment and their bodies come out the smokestack as nothing but a puff of smoke and a name.

               

But they don’t dissipate.

               

Slowly at first, then with increasing speed and intensity, the puffs of smoke stream towards the still-evident Jerusalem in the sky.  They see other puffs, other names, other souls approaching the city from all directions.

               
We’re going home, they say to each other in ecstasy.  Finally, we’re going home.