CNF- A Five Year Old on the Zombie Apocalypse (extended)

     Mother, Father, let me begin our impromptu meeting by declaring shame on you both.  That’s right, hang your heads in shame.  How can you have gone this long without acknowledging the number one threat to our society- Zombies?  That’s right: zombies.  Not the kind of corporate birdbrains who plop themselves in a cubicle and rot in front of a computer day after day.  No, I’m talking about the real thing- the kind of monster that makes ramen out of your intestines.

            You’re probably wondering why I’m wearing a fish bowl on my head and garbage bags on my hands.  Unfortunately, it is unknown whether the zombie virus is airborne.  As we speak, America’s top scientists are working on the cure for this disease. Take it from the kid who's seen every movie on the subject, read every related article, and checked and updated all the facts on Wikipedia- we shouldn't be seeing results any time soon.  Fortunately for us common folk, there is one known cure- taking a gun and shooting the d*mn thing in the head.  Until an actual cure is discovered or I get my gun license, I’ve provided you with your own set of bags and fishbowls.  You can thank me later.

            I’ve been preparing for the onslaught for months, turning mundane items into lethal weapons.  I can even take down a full-grown man with a post-it note. 

Mother, I’m sure you won’t mind, but I’ve configured your hairspray and cigarette lighter into a blowtorch.  I’ve taken it upon myself to practice operating it in the backyard.  Once I’ve perfected my aim, we should be sufficiently protected from large masses of zombies.  Unfortunately, this fighting technique, as I’ve tested myself, is rendered ineffective in close quarters.

            Mother, curtains can be replaced.  Human lives cannot.  Do you want to die?!

            Now, before I am so rudely interrupted again, I would like to discuss our attack plan providing we have to face a zombie one-on-one.  Simple hand-held objects should be enough to bring the enemy down.  You’ll want something heavy-like a lamp.  To prepare for the possible instance in which no weapons are readily available, I’ve been studying the art of martial combat.  My body is a disciplined weapon of mass destruction.  I can literally kill a man with my pinky finger.

In case our home is overrun and my fighting skills are outmatched, I’ve figured out to hot-wire a car.

Father, I realize you couldn’t drive to work today, but when the zombie epidemic spreads, you won’t even have an office to drive to.

            Oh, don’t give me that look.  If you want to succumb to this deadly virus that has already taken so many human lives, so be it.  Just know that when zombie scum overrun the entire freaking planet and you two are the only humans left on the surface world, I’m not letting you into my impenetrable zombie-proof fortress.  That’s right.  I have a g*dd*mn fortress.  Meeting adjourned.  I’ll see you at dinner.

CNF- An Open Letter to the Sweaty Guy at my Gym (alt. prompt)

 Dear Mr. Sweaty Gym user,

I commend your dedication to staying fit, I truly do.  Most people your age couldn’t give a rats a** about their personal health.  I’m sure you’ve got one of those crazy all-juice diets going for you too.  Yeah, you’re the kind of person Kaiser Permanente loves to plaster all over their ads for health insurance.  Brava.  Unfortunately, the rest of us gym patrons are forced to endure the physical and verbal bearings of your labor.

I remember our first encounter on a slow Sunday afternoon.  Following my usual gym routine, I blasted my playlist of booming Euro-beats and thrashing metal guitars, striding through an imaginary finish line on the elliptical at the end of a long row of empty machines.  I didn’t mind of course, but I was surprised when you passed rows of lustrous exercise equipment and slung your towel over the machine beside my own.  I didn’t even mind the occasional groan from your elliptical, protesting under the weight of your hiking boot-clad feet.  I became annoyed, however, when you started panting only two minutes into your workout.  Assuring myself that you were only out of breath from the exercise, I continued on with my own workout. 

When the panting escalated into a full-blown throaty grunt, I sent my ipod flying out of its secure position in my arm holster and skittering across the floor in surprise.  I was a little irritated at having to disrupt my rhythm to adjust my ipod settings and inspect for damage.

Amidst your barrage of throaty bear grunts, I was somehow able to endure forty more minutes on the elliptical.  Admittedly, I felt a twinge of guilt at the resentment I held against you.  After all, you couldn’t control your need for oxygen. 

I finally caught a whiff of the sour stench of your sweat.  I should have figured it was you I was smelling, but I had to glance over at you to check.  Good God, you were sweaty.  Had it not been for the smell, I would have assumed that the stains running down the back and front of your shirt had come from dumping a bucket of water over your head.  I was sure I felt a spattering of moisture hit my entire right side when you shook out your glistening hair.  The flecks of perspiration speckling my arm confirmed my suspicions.

I leaped off of the elliptical, slipping in the puddle of sweat at the base of your machine as I strode toward the exit, unable to stand your pungent, guttural presence any longer. 

Every time I’ve gone to the gym, you’ve been there, and each encounter heeds the same results.  As a fellow gym regular, I would kindly suggest that you jog on over to Kaiser and get a checkup, or at least use the towel the gym has so graciously provided you with.

Sincerely,

Your Fellow Fitness Enthusiast

CNF-A Five Year Old on the Zombie Apocalypse (Internal Monologue)

     Mother, Father, let me begin our impromptu meeting by declaring shame on you both.  That’s right, hang your heads in shame. How can you have gone this long without acknowledging the number one threat to our society- Zombies?  That’s right: zombies.  Not the kind of corporate birdbrains who plop themselves in a cubicle and rot in front of a computer day after day.  No, I’m talking about the real thing- the kind of monster that makes ramen out of your intestines.

            You’re probably wondering why I’m wearing a fish bowl on my head and garbage bags on my hands.  Unfortunately, it is unknown whether the zombie virus is airborne.  As we speak, America’s top scientists are working on the cure for this disease.  Take it from the kid who's seen every movie on the subject, read every related article, and checked and updated all the facts on Wikipedia- we shouldn't be seeing results any time soon.  Fortunately for us common folk, there is one known cure- taking a gun and shooting the d*mn thing in the head.  Until an actual cure is discovered or I get my gun license, I’ve provided you with your own set of bags and fishbowls.  You can thank me later.

            Oh, don’t give me that look.  If you want to succumb to this deadly virus that has already taken so many human lives, so be it.  Just know that when zombie scum overrun the entire freaking planet and you two are the only humans left on the surface world, I’m not letting you into my impenetrable zombie-proof fortress.  That’s right.  I have a g*dd*mn fortress.  Meeting adjourned.  I'll see you at dinner.

CNF-Dialogue

     “Kylie just called.  She’ll be here in a few minutes,” I called out from the bathroom, spitting one last time in the sink and baring my teeth in the mirror to check for any remaining particles.

            “Okay, sweetie, you need to be completely ready to go by then.  Did you brush your teeth?”

            The teeth in question gritted together.  “Yes, mother.”

            I stepped out of the bathroom and into the living room where my mother sat, focusing solely on folding the towel in her lap.

            “Would you mind helping me with this?”  She shoved a towel at me, her eyes still fixed on the material she was creasing with her free hand.

            “Sure,” I squeaked, cringing slightly at the sound of my voice, snatching the towel and plopping down on the couch.  I turned my attention to the rough fabric in my hands, glancing up at my mother every so often while folding.  “So…”

            “So?”

            I swallowed.  “I was wondering- could I possibly have twenty dollars?  We were going to the movies and I might want to get some popcorn or something..;”

            “Alright, sweetie, just remember to bring back the change.”  She momentarily discarded a half-folded shirt, reaching for the purse at her feet and produced a twenty-dollar bill, handing it to me and eying me quizzically.  “What were you and the girls all planning to see?”

            “That Disney movie that just came out,” I answered, my voice faltering.  I bit my lip and stared at the floor, feeling her scrutinizing eyes traversing across my face.

            She huffed, tossing the perfectly creased shirt on top of a pile of identically folded shirts.  “Good, because I just can’t stand the kind of buffoonery that winds up in cinemas these days.  What, with the nudity and language and violence that we plaster on the big screen for our children to see?  I mean really!”

            “Mm-hm.”  Her voice faded into a drone at the back of my mind as I squinted at the clock across the room.  “Five more minutes.”

            “What was that?”

            “Nothing.”  I reached for another towel.

           

Eight pristinely folded towels later, a honk sounded from the driveway.  I jumped up, flinging my bag over my shoulder and rummaging through its contents, checking to make sure I have the appropriate supplies then dashing towards the front door.  “Bye!”

            “Be back by eleven or I’ll hunt you down.”

            “I believe you,” I mumble and roll my eyes, twisting the doorknob.

            “Hey there, gorgeous,” Kylie sang out, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively at me as I slid into the backseat.

            I smirked.  “Hey yourself.”  I turned slightly, addressing the person in the passenger seat.  “’Sup, Kyla?”

            She nodded at me.  “’Sup?”

            Kylie turned around to fully face me.  “Dude, I am so stoked!  Black freaking Swan all the way!”

            “Heck yes!  Look what I managed to score.”  I withdrew a party pack of Hershey bars from my bag, wiggling my eyebrows at the other girls and inducing a few laughs

            “Isn’t it rated ‘R’, though?” Kyla asked, drying her eyes.  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.”

            “Yeah, I heard there are a couple lesbian-type scenes.  That should be interesting,” Kylie answered, catching sight of my giggling form in the rearview mirror.  “What?”

            A devious grin spreads across my face.  “Mom’s going to be so pissed.”

CNF- String of Memories

I don’t remember the first house I lived in.  According to dusty photographs tucked away in bookshelves, I spent the first three years of my life in an apartment in the outskirts of Chico.  I remember burying myself under a mound of pillows and blankets on top of our only couch as the Little Mermaid soundtrack buzzed out of a cd player.  Soon, after my brother was born, my family bid adieu to the apartment, choosing to invest in a “real” house inside a gated community.  Within our own home, I remember sliding across hardwood floors in socks with my younger brother.  I remember reliving this moment the following year in our new house until my brother fell facefirst onto the ground, sobbing and clutching his bleeding nose.  Later that year I found myself crouched over a circular table, grinding down crayons into a picture of a clown, and hoping my fellow kindergarteners would notice how the splotches of color remained within the lines.   I remember in the first grade leaning against the handlebars of my bike, creeping forward on my tiptoes as autumn leaves drifted from overhead trees and crunched beneath my feet.  The following year, I remember the crisp scent of fresh paper as I folded over the pages of my first sketchbook, tracing a pencil across the first page in interlocking shapes.  In third grade I laid on our carpet, propping myself up on my elbows as our puppy lathed between my toes with its tongue.  I remember sitting perched on the edge of my seat in fourth grade, skimming over my note cards and mouthing the words to my speech as I awaited a nod from my teacher.  In fifth grade I swabbed the deck and heaved ropes over the side of the Balclutha as ocean water sprayed my face and seagulls squawked overhead.  In sixth grade, I dangled on the side of a rock wall, suspended by a single rope, desperately groping at the face of the rock for a handhold.  I remember in seventh and eighth grade diving into the edge of the pool and focusing on the pull of my arms rather than the pressure in my head caused by my swim cap and goggles.  In ninth grade I stowed my cap and goggles deep inside an old drawer, instead lacing and unlacing the ties of crisp, white running shoes, bounding through different rooms in the house and bouncing on the firm soles.  A year later I double knotted the laces of a new, purple pair of shoes, kneeling over a starting line and coughing at the dust clouds swirling in the air.  Another pair of shoes later and I found myself plopping into my recliner, gazing into the glowing screen of my computer and resting my head against my fist as I reflected on my first memory.

CNF- Growing is Forever

     In a busy, chaotic world, I often have few moments to myself.  In the free minutes of my day, I often find myself seated at my glossy black piano, my back to the gentle sunlight filtering through the expanse of windows in my family room.  I savor the scent of old parchment as I leaf through the pages of a worn piano book before propping it against the stand, smoothing over the open pages with my hands.  With a slow exhale, I pluck the first note.
     My fingers dance across the polished keys, familiar with the melody.  Gradually, the music builds a steady rhythm, deep notes pulsing beneath tinkling chords.  Absentmindedly I hum along, relishing in the vibrations emanating from deep inside the instrument.
    A warm, ecstatic feeling blossoms in my stomach as the music tumbles into a crescendo, nearing the climactic finale.  I hammer out the final chords, my eyes falling shut as I drive my entire body against the keys.  I linger on remaining notes, drawing out the suspense and reveling in the warm, gratifying sensation bubbling through my body.  I strike out the final chord, my eyes opening to the stark white walls encompassing me.  The dusty sunlight fades as I reach over the piano to switch on the light.  I continue to hum softly as I tread across the cold floor and sling my bag over my shoulder, my body still buzzing even as I hustle through the front door to my next appointment.

Eyes Wide Open

     There simply aren't enough trees in this world.  Their roots are ripped right out of the ground to make space for malls, shops, and parking lots.  Resting beneath the decadent branches of a tree, I was reminded of the natural beauty and comfort these beings provide.
     The leaves rustled as a soft breeze drifted by.  Even as I laid back beneath the sun, I was sheltered by a thick canopy.  It was amazing how many hues of green I could distinguish within a single tree as I looked up.  However, the most striking attribute associated with trees, in my opinion, is their smell.  While images of trees are freely available nearly everywhere, one cannot truly appreciate nature without experiencing the earthy yet clean scent.  It's a shame these little details are overlooked by most.