Story 160: Junior Computer Class

(Supervisor leads Trainer to a classroom, then stops before opening the door)

Supervisor: By the way, thanks again for coming in at the last minute to replace our usual trainer.

Trainer: Not at all, I love teaching these classes – they reduce the number of panicked calls to I.T. by a good 30%.

Supervisor: True, but I do have to warn you about this group: they’re a bunch of babies.

Trainer: (Chuckles as they open the door and he enters the classroom) I’m sure they’re – (Trainer sees that the classroom is populated with 4-year-olds) Oh.  (The door quickly closes behind him as he stares at his class, befuddled.  One of the toddlers starts whinging) Good morning, class.  I’m your trainer from I.T., and I’ll be… demonstrating the system to you today.  Is everyone logged on?  (He sees that they all have computers at their little desks and that all have been logged on) Perfect: let’s start with creating spreadsheets.

(Forty-five minutes later)

Trainer: Once again, please do not put the mouse into your mouth; that type of behavior is very damaging to the equipment.  Are there any questions so far?  (General shifting around in chairs and several of the children start talking to each other) I must ask that you please refrain from sidebar conversations during our session.  (Wide eyes stare at him) Thank you.  Now, does everyone know how to generate these reports on their own?  (Several hands raise in the air) Yes, that’s good, and the rest of you?  (More hands raise in the air to join the ones still there) Do you need me to show you how to do it again? (All hands raise in the air) Right – watch what I am doing up on the projector screen, OK?

(Twenty minutes later)

Trainer: Let me get this straight: not one of you has ever hand coded a Web page before?!  (A stuffed animal is bounced off his head) All right, we’ll take a five minute break.

(Thirty minutes later)

Trainer: OK class, I think we’re ready to start running through some basic uploads to an FTP server, that’ll be fun, right?  (A hand raises in the air) Now I know for a fact that you just went potty, so I’m afraid I can’t allow you to leave in the middle of the session again just yet.

(An hour and a half later)

Trainer: Aaaaaaaand… there’s your data!  Isn’t it pretty?  Now, are there any more questions that I can answer?  (Silence) You guys have been great, this was an excellent class, you have my office number so call me if you have any questions whatsoever!  (He grabs his gear and flees)

            Toddler: Oh no, I forgot to ask him how we can reformat that last report!

            (The entire class bursts into tears)

Story 159: Dropping Eaves App

            “So, I got that new Dropping Eaves App,” she said, waiting for a response.

           “Oh?” was all he could up with at first.  “Well you know what they say: eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves.”

            “I know, that’s why I got it.”

            “Oh?”

           “I want to hear the trash people talk about behind my back.  Knowledge is power: when people suddenly stop talking right as I enter the room, I want to know the exact reason why, so as to know the best way to get revenge.”

            “OK then, how does it work?”

            “It uses that really illegal technology to tap into other people’s phones across the world, so when their microphones hear your name being spoken, your phone records the conversation.”

            “Wow, that’s so invasive!  What if you have a common name, like Cathy, or Ajay?”

           “You can program it so only your so-called friends’ phones are the targets, but fascist dictators just have to sort through the rest themselves.”

            “Cool!  Try it out now, I want to see what happens.”

            “Oh, I always have it on,” she said, holding out her phone to show the activated app.  “This may take awhile, though.”

            They sat in silence for a few minutes until the phone alerted her that one of her contacts had said her name.  “We’ve got a bite!” she said, holding out the phone and pushing the speaker button.

            “I’m worried about her,” they heard, “she’s getting really paranoid lately.”

            “Yeah,” another voice said, “she’s been checking up on all of us a lot and keeps thinking that we’re plotting something behind her back.”

            “Plotting what?”

            “I don’t know, something – she wasn’t specific.  I’m afraid she might hurt herself one of these days.”

         “Or she might hurt one of us.  You think maybe she got that black market app and is eavesdropping on our conversation at this very moment?”

            “That’s a bit extreme… but yeah, that’s totally something she’d do.”

           She turned off the app.  “You know, privacy versus security is a serious issue that is not getting nearly enough of the attention that it should.”

            “I couldn’t agree more.”

Story 158: Oblivia’s Scary Story

            Once upon a time, there was a perfectly ordinary family who led perfectly ordinary lives as peasant farmers in the perfectly ordinary Middle Ages somewhere in perfectly ordinary Europe.  Unfortunately for them, they chose to set up farm at the edge of an extremely haunted forest that did not appreciate a human family unit coming along, clear-cutting the woods and introducing their domesticated animals into the previously balanced environment, decreasing property values everywhere.  So naturally, the haunted forest swore revenge upon the perfectly ordinary family and decided to drive them insane as its method.

            The haunted forest started off slowly to prolong the suspense: disappearing linens here, cow’s milk going sour there, sudden blights upon the crops, random screams in the night, and not a single witch in the area to blame it on.  However, to the haunted forest’s chagrin, the perfectly ordinary family was also a perfectly optimistic family, constantly turning to their faith that things would get better if they just kept at it and did not despair.  This type of thinking only drove the haunted forest bonkers, so it decided to kick things up a notch.  Soon there were blood-red moon sightings, birds acting all kinds of crazy, the 10 perfectly ordinary children walking into the haunted forest and back out again without gathering a single stick of firewood, and Poppa having an unheard-of-for-its-era mid-life crisis.  Momma prayed for deliverance as Poppa neglected the fields yet again for something he called, when he was speaking in tongues, “a round of golf,” but her prayers seemed unanswered, as they always seem to be in these situations.  So, Momma decided to get proactive.

            Grinding her teeth as the morning gruel sprouted weeds for the fifth time, she herded her 10 children into the main room of their one-room abode and locked them in: she did not care what they or any possible poltergeists destroyed, as long as nobody went wandering off to be taken by the haunted forest.  Next, she tracked down Poppa lounging in a cloth that he had tied to two trees and called what sounded like “ham uck,” and she debated leaving him there but eventually could not, in good conscience.  Instead, she lured him back to the house with promises of something he called “the big game” and she locked him in there with the perfectly ordinary children and the possible poltergeists so they could all stare at each other with nothing to do.

            Momma then entered the haunted forest, but since there was no official trail head or even human-made trails she used a scythe to cut her way through the brush, knowing that she was angering the haunted forest even more and that she could not care any less than she did at that moment.  She had no idea where to go or what to do when she got there, but she assumed that the haunted forest would be in touch with her shortly.

            Sure enough, she reached a clearing that seemed the perfect place for her to state her case.

            She opened with: “Leave me and my perfectly ordinary family alone, you gits!”

            An ethereal voice answered: “Leave… first…and… you’ve got… yourself… a deal....”

          “Never!”  She retorted.  “Lord ---- gave us that land to farm for him, and we are farming it, will ye or nill ye!”

            “Lord ----… is… a dastard....” the haunted forest stated.  “We… do not recognize… his authority....”

            Momma was working on a months-long headache, so she offered: “All right, if we ask him to move our farm farther away from you – not that far, mind, but far enough – would you then cease all the curses and wicked behavior and whatever else on my family?”

            Momma had to wait a few moments for a response: “That… sounds reasonable....”

           “Done!  We move over a bit, you leave us alone forever, `tis a deal, binding for eternity, I will tell the others, farewell!”  Momma yelled over her shoulder as she ran out of the confused haunted forest.

         Over the next several weeks, the perfectly ordinary family’s farm was relocated from the haunted forest’s edge and reassembled in the middle of a meadow: not ideal, but they no longer suffered the ongoing torments of talking chickens and Poppa racing his horse and plow at all hours of the night.  The haunted forest slowly regrew the woods that had been lost, and all was well – that is, until Lord ---- decided on a whim to build a new castle in the middle of the haunted forest.  But that’s another story....

          Oblivia looked at her watch: “Would you look at the time, it’s 7:30 in the morning, I completely talked the night away, I’m sorry guys!”  She felt a big guilty for monopolizing the party.

            “7:30 a.m.?”  One of the vampires said, then opened the window shades and screamed at the early morning sunlight peeking through.  He and his compatriots transformed into bats and flapped away.

            “Wait, what happened to Lord ----?”  Dr. Frankenstein asked; he was sitting cross-legged on the floor and was clutching one of his skeletons as he leaned forward.

            “That’d have to be told at another time, I’m afraid,” Oblivia said as she stood to stretch out the kinks; the remaining listeners groaned in disappointment.  “Maybe next year?”  She suggested.

            A mummy stood.  “Seeing as we were going to destroy you for crashing our party last night, it’d be great if you came here next year, we’d love to have you again!”

            “Aw, thanks!”  Oblivia was touched by their acceptance of her, and gladly took the goodie bag they gave her on the way out.

           She emerged into the dawn of the First of November and skipped all the way home, still wearing her Creepy Clown With Creepy Child costume and freaking out only some of her neighbors.  She thought back on all the new friends she had made last night and the meaningful connection that they had shared.

            Halloween’s the best, she thought.  It’s the one day in the year you can be anybody you want to be, and have a great time with some awesome ghouls.

Story 157: A Real Halloween Party

        This year, Oblivia wanted to go to a real Halloween party: not one where people made half-hearted attempts in wearing cheap costumes and decorating the cafeteria with toilet paper pretending to be ghosts, but an actual, genuinely spooky Halloween party.  One where fake blood runs down the walls, all the food choices are labeled as gross body parts, and the guests look like they are either from a movie or they are dead.  So she was thrilled when she saw a random flyer buried at the bottom of a public trash can that read “Super-Secret All Hallows’ Eve Gala!  October 31, 9 PM Until Sunrise!  13 Elm Street! Come As Your True Selves!! Tell No One!!!”

            Oh boy, she thought, this’ll be AWESOME.

           On the night in question, she dressed up as her go-to character, Creepy Clown With Creepy Child – she liked the horrified reactions she usually received from the coulrophobes.  Cruel, she knew, but this was the one night of the year where mild cruelty was socially acceptable.

            She arrived at 13 Elm Street fashionably late at 9:10 p.m., carrying a bottle of champagne and a bag of candy corn: no uninvited guest should ever arrive empty-handed, that is just bad manners.  A ghoul answered the door.

            “Hi!”  Oblivia greeted the door ghoul.  “I’m here for the revels; where can I drop these off, kitchen?”

            The ghoul stared at her with dead eyes and groaned in incomprehension.

            “Perfect!”  Oblivia walked past the ghoul and deposited her gifts in what she assumed was the kitchen.  She could not tell which room was which because the entire house had been decorated masterfully: black light, creaking floorboards, holes in the walls, no everyday furniture in sight, real cobwebs, nesting bats, rattling chains, bubbling cauldrons, and the sudden sounds of moans and screams filling the air as a soundtrack.  At last, she thought, somebody got Halloween right.

            She was surrounded by bodies swaying asynchronously to the night music: they appeared to be in mourning, yet somehow having a blast at the same time.  Sure, it was not exactly music you could dance to, but it stirred the soul, and that is all that matters.  She swayed to the rhythm as best she could, eyes closed to the alternating glares of resentment and apathy that were sent in her direction.

            At the cauldron labeled “Essence of Suffering,” she grabbed a glass and ladled some of the steaming concoction in, letting the smoke bathe her face for a moment since she was uncertain whether that was a sign the beverage was too hot or too cold.  It was the former, so she blew on it a bit as a man in a lab coat walked over to her.

            “You shouldn’t be here,” he said without preamble.

           Oblivia coughed on some steam before answering.  “I know, I’m crashing, but I couldn’t resist, it sounded so good!”  She blew on the drink some more: why was it not cooling down like any natural drink would?  Oh, right, because it was super-natural.

            “It’s not just that, which is – rude, by the way,” the man said as she grinned sheepishly.  “It’s that you don’t belong here at all.  You’re not one of us.”

           “What do you mean?  You’re not exactly in full-out costume, so I don’t see how you get to criticize me.  At least I made an effort to be horrific.”  The With Creepy Child part of her costume briefly wailed in agreement; she patted its head.  “Hush, now.”

            “Well, I only appear ‘normal’ because I’m Dr. Frankenstein,” the man replied.  “And I don’t think you want to be my next experiment, if you know what I mean.”

            “Brilliant!”  Oblivia clapped her hand holding the glass in glee.  “And are those skeletons you’re dragging around some of your victims?  I mean, projects?”

            He glanced at the bodies she mentioned; he had them tethered to him with a long rope.  “Oh, these I got from a friend who found them in her dead aunt’s closet,” he said, then leaned in and winked conspiratorially.  “I told her they were fake.”

            “Interesting.”  Oblivia was not quite certain whether this was still part of the gag.

           Frankenstein returned to a social distance.  “Really though, for your own sake you should leave now.  You may find yourself on tonight’s menu.”

            “Ha, ha, ha, ohhhh…..”  She trailed off as she finally noticed the other guests had ceased their aimless swaying some time ago and were staring at her intensely.

            “Oops,” Frankenstein said in the way that meant he actually was glad at this turn of events, then slung the skeletons over his left shoulder and strolled to the mashed brains bar for some protein.

            Oblivia, at long last, was aware of her surroundings and of the actual danger she was in as the ghouls, goblins, vampires, werewolves, witches, warlocks, and all the rest closed in on her from every side, including above from the ceiling and below through the floor…

TO BE CONTIN –

            “HOLD IT!”  Oblivia held up her hand, halting the guests’ forward momentum.  She knew running would only allow them to finish the job quicker: instead, she had to make them change their minds about destroying her.

            As they stared at her, allowing a few moments before they would continue their advance, she said:

            “Would you like to hear a scary story?”

            They looked at each other, then slowly sat down in the ring they conveniently had formed around her.  Frankenstein stared in disbelief as he munched on his dinner, then sat down where he was.

            “Very well then,” Oblivia said as she grabbed a nearby stool and sat, facing the crowd.  “Let’s begin at the most unpleasant beginning: ‘Once upon a midnight dreary –’”

            “No one likes The Raven, it’s been done to death,” a zombie said ironically; others grunted.

          “But I had to recite it in grade school and the only narratively acceptable reason it would be necessary to memorize all 100+ lines is so that it would save my life at this very moment!”  Oblivia argued.

            “No The Raven!”  A vampire yelled.

            “Oh all right.”  Oblivia could switch gears with the best of them.  “Then I will simply begin with: Once upon a time…”

TO BE CONTINUED (FOR REALS)