(My friend and I have been playing this game where we make up writing prompts for each other, then write a story about whatever we are sent. My prompt last night was: "Amazon sends you a free gift with your package, but instead of something lame like toilet paper, its a katana." I have been having lots of fun with my these prompts. Not only do they get me writing about new topics, they get me writing in new styles as well.)
I was very excited to get my box of tightly packed books. I had been treating myself to periodic brain care packages since Quarantine began to seep into my bones. I had surrendered to lethargy and I figured I would make the most of it: Homer, Machiavelli, Proust… They were all stacked up so nicely in their box, the epitome of order, of potential. I could feel the heft of all those weighty words as I dragged the square cardboard container into my living room.
I was just waving goodbye to the mailman, when he turned around. He hopped frantically out of the truck, lugging a long thin package. “I am so sorry, I almost forgot! This is for you.” He handed me the strange package. “It’s from Amazon!” he yelled, running back to his truck. Oddly shaped free toilet paper, I thought to myself as I lined the newcomer up beside my books. I opened the long package first, hoping if I prolonged the anticipation, I would savor my books more; maybe I would actually read them. But proust. I made a face. What possessed me?
The long package! Perhaps it was some new fangled devise for wiping your butt. I figured I had better open it before I got my hopes up. Sharpening my fingernails on the pure iron of will power, I tore into the cardboard. Alas the cardboard was simply a decorative facade! It looked tough, but when faced with the ferocity of fingernails it was revealed to be simply paper masquerading as something solid, something unrippable. Underneath was the true stalwart protection. It didn’t need any recognition, it was happy to simply serve, a loyal old fashioned bodyguard: bubblewrap. My fingers slipped on the smooth plastic. It made me painfully aware of my hands’ humanity; to flesh plastic is god. Despite its apparent translucents, I couldn't even see through the damn thing. It was so surreptitiously wrapped around its ward. Finally I gave up: I peeled off the tape and let whatever was inside roll gently out its cocoon and on to my carpet, my dingy brown carpet from the eighties.
It was a sword. I real figgen sword. And shit! It was sharp. I sucked my finger. The blood tasted like sword iron. I never thought I would get to say something that cool. The blood tasted like sword iron. A line like that was straight from a book I would actually like to read! It was a beautiful sword, curved slightly, elegantly, and bejeweled. The next day I ordered myself a sword encyclopedia. While I waited for the enciclopedia to arrive, I tried to grit my teeth through the first page of In Search of Lost Time. Despite the timeliness of the title, I didn’t find enough time to read much more then that. But I did find lots of time for admiring my new sword. I put it on my mantlepiece, (just kidding I don’t have a mantlepiece) I put it on my kitchen table, where I could stare at it while I ate.
The day my encyclopedia arrived was one of the most exciting of my life, or at least one of the most exciting of these last few months. I didn’t bother with my finger nails, instead I went straight for the scissors. I made a list of my sword's defining characteristics, then compared and contrasted with the photos in the book. After a good deal of careful research, I could say with 83 percent certainty that my sword was a katana. A katana!
I left it reverently on the table. As much as I wanted to become a samurai, I was pretty sure training as a samurai qualified as cultural appropriation. Besides, I am 56 percent positive stories are supposed to stay on the page, or on the kitchen table.
I was very excited to get my box of tightly packed books. I had been treating myself to periodic brain care packages since Quarantine began to seep into my bones. I had surrendered to lethargy and I figured I would make the most of it: Homer, Machiavelli, Proust… They were all stacked up so nicely in their box, the epitome of order, of potential. I could feel the heft of all those weighty words as I dragged the square cardboard container into my living room.
I was just waving goodbye to the mailman, when he turned around. He hopped frantically out of the truck, lugging a long thin package. “I am so sorry, I almost forgot! This is for you.” He handed me the strange package. “It’s from Amazon!” he yelled, running back to his truck. Oddly shaped free toilet paper, I thought to myself as I lined the newcomer up beside my books. I opened the long package first, hoping if I prolonged the anticipation, I would savor my books more; maybe I would actually read them. But proust. I made a face. What possessed me?
The long package! Perhaps it was some new fangled devise for wiping your butt. I figured I had better open it before I got my hopes up. Sharpening my fingernails on the pure iron of will power, I tore into the cardboard. Alas the cardboard was simply a decorative facade! It looked tough, but when faced with the ferocity of fingernails it was revealed to be simply paper masquerading as something solid, something unrippable. Underneath was the true stalwart protection. It didn’t need any recognition, it was happy to simply serve, a loyal old fashioned bodyguard: bubblewrap. My fingers slipped on the smooth plastic. It made me painfully aware of my hands’ humanity; to flesh plastic is god. Despite its apparent translucents, I couldn't even see through the damn thing. It was so surreptitiously wrapped around its ward. Finally I gave up: I peeled off the tape and let whatever was inside roll gently out its cocoon and on to my carpet, my dingy brown carpet from the eighties.
It was a sword. I real figgen sword. And shit! It was sharp. I sucked my finger. The blood tasted like sword iron. I never thought I would get to say something that cool. The blood tasted like sword iron. A line like that was straight from a book I would actually like to read! It was a beautiful sword, curved slightly, elegantly, and bejeweled. The next day I ordered myself a sword encyclopedia. While I waited for the enciclopedia to arrive, I tried to grit my teeth through the first page of In Search of Lost Time. Despite the timeliness of the title, I didn’t find enough time to read much more then that. But I did find lots of time for admiring my new sword. I put it on my mantlepiece, (just kidding I don’t have a mantlepiece) I put it on my kitchen table, where I could stare at it while I ate.
The day my encyclopedia arrived was one of the most exciting of my life, or at least one of the most exciting of these last few months. I didn’t bother with my finger nails, instead I went straight for the scissors. I made a list of my sword's defining characteristics, then compared and contrasted with the photos in the book. After a good deal of careful research, I could say with 83 percent certainty that my sword was a katana. A katana!
I left it reverently on the table. As much as I wanted to become a samurai, I was pretty sure training as a samurai qualified as cultural appropriation. Besides, I am 56 percent positive stories are supposed to stay on the page, or on the kitchen table.
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