Prompt: "What's the dumbest holiday? Invent a character in your mind who thinks that particular holiday is the BEST holiday. Write about that character."

Jonny couldn't get enough Flag Day. A trivial, inconsequential holiday to most, the day designated to be set aside to celebrate the America flag was something special to him. Christmas was for the religious and consumers. Thanksgiving was really just about eating too much and watching football. Valentine's Day? Don't even go there - Jonny didn't have someone like that in his life. Flag Day was special.

Celebrated each June 14th, Jonny first took a shine to Flag Day in high school when he mentioned to his friend Seymore that he couldn't stand the traditional holidays. New Year's had come and gone and when they got back together once school resumed Jonny expressed how disappointing New Year's was - it reminded him of his failures and his lack of will to do anything about them. How depressing. Seymore agreed and their friendship grew closer. As the school year wound down to a close they decided to do something about all these droll holidays - ignore them! And what to replace them with? The upcoming Flag Day! Non-conformists to the max! And to be even weirder? They'd exchange gifts - and not just flags. In fact, no flags allowed! But they would have a rule, or, even better, a tradition for the holiday gift exchange: the gift would have to cost exactly twelve sixty seven! After tax, of course. What a funky, fun way to celebrate!

And so they did. Until Jonny forgot all about it.

We Think With The Objects We Love

I received the bible on the day I was baptised, back in 1986. It’s leather bound, but judging from the reddish color and the way it has aged it would be safe to assume that it’s not real leather. It’s a standard sized bible, small enough for a ten year old’s small hands but heavy, the way a book filled with lots and lots of thin pages can deceptively be. It’s not a children’s bible with fun drawings and simplified versions of old stories, but it’s not the lofty language of the King James either - it’s probably an NIV or NASB. I remember using the table of contents to memorize the books of the New Testament - a goal set forth in Sunday School with some small trinket as a prize. The trinket is long gone but somehow, through the detours of my life and faith, I’ve managed to hang on to the bible. Packed away in a box somewhere during my teens and twenties the bible hid in the dark much like my spirituality. Dark stuff indeed. But as I came back into a relationship with God the bible returned into my life once again, in pretty good shape considering. As I’ve matured I don’t fixate on objects - or as I often call them, things or stuff. Like my faith, my attachment to earthly things has lessened as I focus on the eternal. But there is something special about the object that first helped link the earthly world and the spiritual realm for me as a child. I don’t think I actually realized that this worn, old bible is the object I love the most until right now.

Fact and Fancy

I was asked by the nurse to put on the scrubs provided: a gown, a hairnet, a mask, gloves, and booties to go over my shoes. I was anxious to get going, ready to move down the hall to the operating room to join Alissa. The nurse again spoke up, informing me that she would return to get me in about half an hour. I felt like such a long wait was going to wreck my nerves - so much time to worry and imagine the worst scenarios. After the half hour had passed, the nurse did indeed return to the room, but the news wasn’t good: Alissa’s spinal block had “gone high” - she had stopped breathing - and the doctors had needed to put her under general anesthesia to complete the procedure. I panicked, my mind racing, wondering if my wife and son would survive. The nurse attempted to comfort me, trying to assure me that everything would be fine, but that I wouldn’t be joining them in the operating room. Anger that I wouldn’t get to see my son being born tinged my worry. She told me that she’d return once again after the surgery, to let me know how things had gone. I collapsed back on to the couch, upset that I’d have to sit here alone with my worry. Alissa had decided a couple of hours ago, when the pushing was still going well, that we would stop giving phone call and text message updates to friends and family until after the baby had arrived. In my stress I decided to screw that idea - it was time to call our parents. My mom answered the phone with obvious expectation; she was ready for news. The update poured out of my me, my need for comfort greater than her need for news. She told me that it would all work out, as did my dad and my mother-in-law, in subsequent calls. After hanging up the third time I stopped my pacing and again collapsed on the couch, resigned to wait further news. The nurse entered again, quickly informing that things were going well - my son had been born and both he and Alissa were doing well. Elation: they were going to make it and I’d get to see them soon! She left, adding that she’d be back shortly with the newborn, after a last few medical checks. My heart leaped knowing that I’d have him in my arms in mere moments. There was an additional twenty minutes of waiting, but it gave me a chance to call our folks with the wonderful news. Sure enough, the nurse entered the room with my son in her arms and handed him over to me. This beautiful baby - this handsome young man - was my son and I was his proud father. The nurse let me know that Alissa was recovering and would be able to return to meet him in just a couple of hours. Our family would be united for the first time soon and I would get the joy of introducing this perfect baby to his wonderful mother. He sat quietly in my arms. I would treasure this moment, this amazing memory, forever.

Writing In Summary

Wow, has it really been five years since Atlanta already? It seems more like a lifetime. And now I’m moving from Boston to Philly, yet another leap for a tired frog, getting older with each hop.

Every time I move I unearth another faded memory. This time an old scrap of newspaper drifting to the worn, beige carpet, having fallen out of a hardbound copy of William Gibson’s Mona Lisa Overdrive. She never did appreciate sci-fi. I wonder why it ended up in there. Rereading the half inch column of her personal ad from the Atlanta street rag brought it all right back.

“Single White Female, 30, enjoys writing.”

That was certainly her claim and she made it even louder and more boldly after a few pints at the Crown and Rabbit. Not that I was a writer in those days. No, that’d come a few years later, almost to spite her. But she’d get going with her friends - always her friends, they never became my friends - going on about Shakespeare, then Hemingway, and Faulkner, always ending with Faulkner. She was a classic southern girl in her love of Faulkner’s meandering prose. I tried and tried to read Finnegan’s Wake and never made it. But from what I did manger to collect in my efforts I’m pretty sure she never did either. She’d go on and on about form versus function and this writing style versus that. All bullshit from what I could hear. I’d add just enough to the conversation every now and then to keep them aware that I was at the table with the occasional backhanded barb, deeply veiled in irony and sarcasm. There were enough of those through our months together to show the inevitable end.

Writing Backwards

Roger’s hernia wasn’t getting any better. He was pretty sure he’d have to get to a doctor before too long. It wasn’t exactly that he avoided doctors, he just - well, okay, he avoided doctors. He hadn’t visited a hospital in well over ten years and he wasn’t too excited about the prospect now.

“So how exactly do you think that first - what’d you call it? Gambino acid? How’d it get going then? Lighting?”, asked Taylor.

“Amino acid. And, yeah, sure, lightning is one thought. There would need to be some kind of energy to get things going. But that’s not where I was going with that at all!”

Roger was getting frustrated. He knew Taylor was trying to work it all out, but it was slow going. The concept seemed to ravage his imagination like a lion tearing through a field of gazelles - it didn’t always strike the best ideas, but it’d almost always manage to tackle one of the weaker thoughts out on the side.

“So where was all this supposed to be happening then?”

“Imagine a bowl - no, a vase - no, that’s not it. How about imagining a casket? Yeah, that’s about the right dimensions. Imagine a casket filled with... slime. Yeah. The slime’s pretty warm, it’s got a hot spring or something bubbling up. Hey, that could even be another possible source of energy.”

Roger’s hernia twinged a bit again. Yeah, he was going to have to convince Taylor to drive him into town this afternoon. He couldn’t go on in with this pain. Never the less, he was aware enough that he could see the thoughts grinding through Taylor’s gears - the muscles twitching on his face hinting at the internal machinations. He could see them twitching come to an abrupt end: a sure sign that a pertinent query was forthcoming.

“But what about God? Where does He fit in? You’re talking about the beginning of all life and you haven’t mentioned the big guy yet.”

“Ah! Now you’ve asked the right question!”

Roger knew this heated discussion was going to take an interesting turn here. He knew this would be the point where they would continue for years and years going over old points to find new angles. They would never fight about the soup quite the same after all of that.

Pictures - Whatever Comes

Bug shook the can. Not loudly, but enough to get Rod's attention. Rod had been working at the bright monitor in the dark room for a couple of hours and it was probably time for another feeding. Rod groaned as he stood from his seat and lumbered over to flick on the lights, illuminating the laboratory with the sickly pale light that could only be from the cheapest of flourescent bulbs.

"Okay, Bug, I'm coming."

They called him Bug, but he was no insect. He lived in a canister labeled Radioactive Waste, but he was neither radioactive nor waste. A ruse. Bug had begun life as a microbe: small, insignificant, short lived. The later is what they were hoping to alter. They were successful but the side effects weren't very appealing - Bug had... what? Mutated? Evolved? They weren't exaclty sure and hadn't put a label on it yet. Changed was the word for it: Bug had changed. That was for sure.

Rod wandered over to the food bin and removed a bit with his long, silver fork. That'd be enough for this late at night. He removed the canister's lid and smiled. Bug wasn't cute, but he was like an only child to Rod - all he had in that department.

"Here you go, fella. Now try to get some rest."

"Thanks, Rod."

The True Disclaimer

The sun was beginning to peak over the high school and the wind was finally coming to an end. This one was the longest on the course, but there were no trees or obstacles between the tee and the hole, just a low field with the cage resting on a berm in the distance. I readied my first throw, knowing that distance was the key to this one. I hauled off and threw the frisbee as hard and as far as I could. It left my fingertips with the snap of my wrist and sailed up and out, just a bit to the right as I had intended. The slight angle caught the breeze and it should and began to slice to the left. That would work out just fine. The disc began its decent and finally landed with practicaly no bounce or roll. My friend had his first throw, a decent distance as well, and we marched forward for the second shot. I picked it up and decided that with this distance I would need to continue with my long distance disc. I threw again.

I don't remember exactly how the throw felt, but it seemed to me that it was a model of pure athletic perfection. I hear that's how it works when you get in the zone. The disc lanced towards the hole, a straight arrow burning towards the goal. I thought for sure it would rattle the cage as it hit the chains and dropped. The clanging rang out, a sound I imagine echoed through the neighborhood, alerting all to the beauty of a frisbee golf birdie shot of such immense distance. Surely they would have to come out of their quiet homes, awoken from their slumber, to see what the excitement was about.

Nothing stirred - the wind at a standstill, the birds quiet.

My buddy broke the silence, "nice shot, dude."

I suppose this art, my masterpiece written in aerodynamics, was for the two of us to enjoy this morning.