Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts

A Monument to Adam

creative nonfiction
by Mark Twain


Just for fun, we occasionally publish vintage pieces from historic authors.
Some one has revealed to the TRIBUNE that I once suggested to Rev. Thomas K. Beecher, of Elmira, New York, that we get up a monument to Adam, and that Mr. Beecher favored the project. There is more to it than that. The matter started as a joke, but it came somewhat near to materializing.

It is long ago--thirty years. Mr. Darwin's DESCENT OF MAN had been in print five or six years, and the storm of indignation raised by it was still raging in pulpits and periodicals. In tracing the genesis of the human race back to its sources, Mr. Darwin had left Adam out altogether. We had monkeys, and "missing links," and plenty of other kinds of ancestors, but no Adam. Jesting with Mr. Beecher and other friends in Elmira, I said there seemed to be a likelihood that the world would discard Adam and accept the monkey, and that in the course of time Adam's very name would be forgotten in the earth; therefore this calamity ought to be averted; a monument would accomplish this, and Elmira ought not to waste this honorable opportunity to do Adam a favor and herself a credit.

Then the unexpected happened. Two bankers came forward and took hold of the matter--not for fun, not for sentiment, but because they saw in the monument certain commercial advantages for the town. The project had seemed gently humorous before--it was more than that now, with this stern business gravity injected into it. The bankers discussed the monument with me. We met several times. They proposed an indestructible memorial, to cost twenty-five thousand dollars. The insane oddity of a monument set up in a village to preserve a name that would outlast the hills and the rocks without any such help, would advertise Elmira to the ends of the earth-- and draw custom. It would be the only monument on the planet to Adam, and in the matter of interest and impressiveness could never have a rival until somebody should set up a monument to the Milky Way.

People would come from every corner of the globe and stop off to look at it, no tour of the world would be complete that left out Adam's monument. Elmira would be a Mecca; there would be pilgrim ships at pilgrim rates, pilgrim specials on the continent's railways; libraries would be written about the monument, every tourist would kodak it, models of it would be for sale everywhere in the earth, its form would become as familiar as the figure of Napoleon.

One of the bankers subscribed five thousand dollars, and I think the other one subscribed half as much, but I do not remember with certainty now whether that was the figure or not. We got designs made-- some of them came from Paris.

In the beginning--as a detail of the project when it was yet a joke-- I had framed a humble and beseeching and perfervid petition to Congress begging the government to built the monument, as a testimony of the Great Republic's gratitude to the Father of the Human Race and as a token of her loyalty to him in this dark day of humiliation when his older children were doubting and deserting him. It seemed to me that this petition ought to be presented, now--it would be widely and feelingly abused and ridiculed and cursed, and would advertise our scheme and make our ground-floor stock go off briskly. So I sent it to General Joseph R. Hawley, who was then in the House, and he said he would present it. But he did not do it. I think he explained that when he came to read it he was afraid of it: it was too serious, to gushy, too sentimental--the House might take it for earnest.

We ought to have carried out our monument scheme; we could have managed it without any great difficulty, and Elmira would now be the most celebrated town in the universe.

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Mark Twain was the pen name of Samuel Langhorne Clemens (1835 – 1910), often characterized as the greatest American humorist. In addition to innumerable stories and essays, he is remembered for his novels, including Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.

 

When Pickles Fly

by William P. Adams

Play was interrupted when several large dill pickles suddenly flew onto the Pickleball court at Gherkin Acres Country Club. On the other side of the wall, Heinz Vlasic, recently fired GACC kitchen helper, relished the moment and said to himself, “That’ll teach ‘em to take away my bread and butter!”

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William P. Adams writes stories.

 

The Cruise

by David Sydney

So far there had been 20 days and 20 nights of non-stop, torrential, pitiless rain. Stuffed to the gills with animals two-by-two, the Ark wasn't a pleasant place.
“This has got to be your stupidest idea yet. How long did you say we have to keep this up?”
Did Noah have to hear that again?
What would his wife be like on day 28? Or 39?
“I told you. We're just following orders.”

They glared at one another in the limited, dank space available with so many animals.

“Orders? You had an order to float around with two rhinos?”
She had a point. Rhinoceroses are terribly large, ungainly, and far from pleasant passengers. They are provoked by the slightest insult.
“Hippos are even worse.”
Another good point. And Hippos take up even more space than rhinos.

“Noah, did you know there'd be 40 days and nights of this? I mean, before you agreed to become captain of this… This…”
What was the word?
“Do you mean Ark?”
“No, I don't mean Ark.”
“How about ship?”
“No, I don't mean ship either.”

It was more like a floating garbage barge.

Everyone enjoys a pleasant voyage, maybe a day at most. At that time, boats were wooden and flat-bottomed. The Ark was, well, in her opinion, ridiculous. “Do you realize we have weasels here, Noah? Who wants to be shoulder-to-shoulder with weasels?”

His defense, again, was following orders. From Noah's point of view it was simple. If you hear a booming voice from out of nowhere – seemingly from out of a whirlwind – shaking you to your very foundations, commanding you to do something, you do it.

“Suppose it told you to sacrifice one of the children? I suppose you'd do that?”
“Who'd ever ask for anything like that?”
She asked out of frustration. It's difficult to clean up from rhinos.

After the third day, she turned a green color from seasickness.
By the end of the first week, she gave up on any idea of having a night of restful sleep.
Now into the 20th day afloat, she disliked all creatures great and small. “Noah, I thought that there'd always be some relief, no matter how bad it got, when you talked about the Ark.”
Her face might've been a bowl of split pea soup, that shade of green, if soup could have so many lines of irritation.
“Look… I'm just following directions.”
“Yeah… But I never thought it would get so I didn't like platypuses.”
They are adorable creatures. Everyone likes them.
“But try to sleep when they're squirming and growling all night.”
Platypuses are nocturnal creatures. When one of them lays an egg right by you, that egg takes up added space. There's only so much room you can give up – that is, little – when you're pressed next to a rhino. Next to a hippo… It's even worse…

She looked at her wet, bearded husband.
At the so-called "captain".
“Alright, Captain Noah, from now on when it comes to cleaning up, you take care of the hippos…”

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━

David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).

 

Claustrophobia

by James C. Clar

It was Danielle who mentioned it first. “Is it me, or does the hallway seem narrower to you?” she asked one evening as she paused on her way into the kitchen.

David laughed. “We’ve lived here a month now and it seems the same to me.” Danielle made a face and kept walking. Still the impression clung to her like a burdock.

A few days later, she broached the topic again. They were having wine before dinner. “I can’t explain it, but the rooms seem… smaller to me somehow.”

“Listen, honey,” David said with characteristic patience, “you’ve been under a lot of stress. Moving, getting acclimated to a new job. You’re tired and on edge.” David swirled the wine in his glass. He enjoyed watching the ‘legs’ cling to the sides and dissipate.

“I’m not imagining it!” Her voice had a plaintive quality, as though she wanted to be reassured further.

By the following week, David swore he had to turn sideways to walk between their sofa and the coffee table. He never had to do that before. He made a mental note to ask Danielle if she had moved the furniture.

A couple of days later, he was brushing his teeth. He saw Danielle in the mirror. “The bathroom seems cramped,” she remarked as she put a clean towel on the rack.

David dried his hands. “The bathroom is small. We knew that when we bought the place.”

From then on, the thought seemed to haunt them. Danielle noticed things she felt certain had moved. The rug under the dining table seemed to take up more space. A framed picture on the wall appeared closer to the mantle.

David began to suspect Danielle was surreptitiously rearranging things to prove her suspicions. He found her once in the middle of the night in the living room, standing with her palm flat against the wall.

“Danielle, what are you doing?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied.

A few nights later, they argued about the whole thing. David accused her of becoming obsessed. Danielle said she felt ‘dismissed’. Once peace was restored, David noticed he could no longer stand between his dresser and the window as he often did when dressing.

Next day, David bought a tape measure. He measured the living room. Danielle watched from the doorway. The numbers matched the listing the realtor had given them.

Danielle stared at the tape measure, then at the paper in David’s hand. “I don’t believe it,” she said, turning away.

Soon, the couple remarked on how often they bumped into each other in the kitchen. Drawers seemed to take up more space when opened. Ceiling fans looked lower.

Eventually, they stopped inviting people over. They worked from home whenever possible. The thought of leaving the house for long seemed too ‘risky’.

A month later, they had enough. They checked into an extended-stay hotel. Neither went back to the house except to get clothes or necessities.

Finally, they put the house on the market. In a few weeks it sold. David and Danielle began searching for a new home. The hotel was an expense, but they enjoyed its open, airy floor plan; a feature they asked their realtor to look for.

One evening, after getting a call that their offer on a house had been accepted, they celebrated with a second bottle of wine.

This time it was David who brought it up first.

As he was drying the dishes, he said, “Danielle, did you do something to the light over the sink? It seems lower than it was. I almost bumped my head…”

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━

James C. Clar divides his time between Upstate New York and Honolulu, Hawaii. In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, his work has also appeared in The Blotter Magazine, MetaStellar Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Magazine of Literary Fantasy and Freedom Fiction Journal.

 

The Experimental Writer

by Robert Runté

I mostly get “not for us”, because these editors aren't up for something really fresh. Or comments about “craft”, as if there were "rules" for writing. They're all so old-fashioned. One even wrote they couldn’t make out what I was trying to say. I was astounded by that frank admission.

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Robert Runté is Senior Editor with EssentialEdits.ca and freelances at SFeditor.ca. A former professor, he has won three Aurora Awards for his literary criticism and currently reviews for the Ottawa Review of Books. His own fiction has been published over 125 times

 

The Options

by David Sydney

In a clearing in Sherwood Forest, Robin Hood pondered what to do. He was a man of action but a little weak on pondering. So, it would be a group decision as to how the newly-formed Merry Men should proceed. As Friar Tuck, before lapsing off in an inebriated state, put it – what would be their "modus operandi"? With his bow, Robin drew the option lines in the dirt at his feet while Little John and Will Scarlet looked on. His heart was not fully in it yet, since Maid Marion hadn't arrived.

“As I see it, these are the choices.” He pointed to the four scratches as Little John counted on his fingers. “We can rob from the rich and give to the poor.” That was one. “We can rob from the poor and give to the rich. We can rob from the rich and just keep it. Or, we could rob from the poor and keep it.” As he came to his fourth finger, Little John mentioned that the rich wouldn't like it if they were robbed. He had experience with the rich. Will added that the poor wouldn't like it either. He knew them only too well.

The Friar stirred, mumbling that he too "grasped the gist of the conundrum". Little John didn't bother to ask what that meant. He folded his fingers into a fist.

Will turned a little, well, red, embarrassed that he couldn't keep up with the Friar's vocabulary, honed from Tuck's studies at the Friary in his adolescence. “How about we rob from the middle class?”

What the hell? Will and Little John had no idea what to say. It was as though they were struck dumb by another of the Friar's "cogitations"’. Robin grimaced. How many extra frown lines could he add to his face? “What are you talking about, Friar?”

Tuck wiped his mouth while shrugging his shoulders. He was the kind of person who could walk and chew at the same time. Had he been dreaming or hallucinating as Robin pondered? Didn't he realize he was dealing with a soon-to-be legendary figure of late 12th-century England? And Maid Marion, if she ever arrived, would be a second legendary figure, and a very attractive one. Yes, it was the 12th-century. Maybe the early 13th. He was apologetic. It must've been the elderberry wine that pickled his mind. "Middle class"? Who'd ever heard of such a ridiculous thing in England?

"Middle Class"? It was certainly no "socio-economic term" that the Friar ever heard at the Friary.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━

David Sydney is a physician. He has had pieces in Little Old Lady Comedy, 101 Words, Microfiction Monday, 50 Give or Take, Friday Flash Fiction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, Disturb the Universe, R U Joking, Every Writer Magazine, Hotch Potch, Mad Swirl, Sip Cup, Literary Revelations Journal, and Rue Scribe.

College of Philosophy

by Derek McMillan

The College of Philosophy were holding their annual general meeting in Scoresdale Village. We did not anticipate any trouble from a group of philosophers, not compared to punk rockers for example.

Among other things they were selling a handkerchief which appeared to have one pattern when folded and a different pattern when opened out. It "represented the complexity of life" apparently. At £5 each it also represented the cost of living.

‘Have you seen this?’

Constable Burgos always read the Daily Star after putting up with all that banter about him being illiterate.

He read deliberately.

‘Underwater slavery. ‘

‘Women have been lured by romantic weddings including some underwater ceremonies. The weddings, mostly involving the same groom, are fake but the domestic slavery is all too real.’

‘A woman dubbed ‘the masked avenger’ (the mask was scuba gear, he explained) put a spanner in the works by cutting the air pipe of the groom which led to his doom.’

‘That’s a mixed metaphor,’ he said proudly. ‘Groom and doom rhyme,’ he added.

In a cafe in Scoresdale, one of the small dramas which were a feature of the AGM of the College of Philosophy.

The philosopher nominated as "murderee" Doctor Amanda Scrace was sitting having a meal in a popular local restaurant. Leading celebrities of the College were in attendance.

So were we. We had an anonymous tip off that Doctor Scrace was in fact the soi-disant "masked avenger". Constable Burgos was just looking around at the celebrities around him with awe and I had to keep reminding him to keep his mind on the job.

The nominated "murderer" entered the restaurant to applause. He stalked up to the murderee and said dramatically, ‘I have come to kill you’

In accordance with tradition, Doctor Scrace responded, ‘Obviously you are not or you would have done it by now. Will you talk me to death?" ‘ Her companions applauded.

The gun went off and the guest of honour sank gracefully to the floor. By tradition she would then get up and make a meandering speech about the futility of existence.

Not this time. She was very dead. The College had two medical doctors (in fact it had five). Two certified the death as a heart attack.

By tradition the College applied to the authorities for what they called a Viking funeral.

The shrouded victim was put into a long boat which was set afire at a safe distance from shore. Members of the college thronged the shore and unanimously confirmed they had seen Amanda’s soul leave her body. She gave the College a tedious benediction which was well received.

A Scoresdale local saw Amanda rising from the remains of the shroud and yelling ‘YOU BASTARDS!’ but the resident knew better than to say anything. The underwater slave trade resumed after a decent interval. No link to the College of Philosophy was established. In addition to doctors, they also had some very expensive barristers.

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Derek McMillan is the author of the cheerily entitled "Murder from Beyond the Grave" which is available on eBay.

 

The English Teacher

by Brenda Watnik

I drag my wheeled book tote to the front of the room and write my name on the whiteboard. “Let's introduce ourselves," I say. "I'll start. My name is Brenda Watnik. I have a Master's degree in Creative Writing from Cal State Long Beach. I've been a teacher for ten years, and this is my third year at this college."

Like all good lies, my biography contains a kernel of truth. I did attend Cal State Long Beach in my youth, although my major was Art History, and I didn't graduate. I really have been at Something College three years, but this is my first teaching job. I was hired at a frantic time when enrollment was exceptionally high and experienced teachers were in short supply; my resume was not fact-checked.

"Now it's your turn," I say. "Tell me about yourselves." I have discovered that pretending to be interested in the students boosts my evaluation scores, almost as much as my generous grading policies. Something College values those scores. Highly-rated teachers make the school look good. In return for my success at charming the class, I was offered first chance at what the administration inexplicably considers the most desirable assignment in the department, "Introduction to Creative Writing." In a way, creative writing is my specialty.
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Brenda Watnik is an instructor at a small college in Southern California, and swears that this story is not autobiographical.