I, Teach

“I am a teacher
and a repeat offender,”
I said with conviction.
Tried, convicted, sentenced.
I serve my sentence
[grammatically correct, of course]
within these walls
painted institutional green
and ply my trade
from the inside.
And I count the days
until June.

Something Phishy

Kathleen answered the phone on the second ring. “Fischer Detective Agency.”

“Hi, Kat Fish. I need your help.”

She allowed herself just a moment to cringe at the nickname she had always hated and then went right back to business. “Hi, Dad. What’s up?”

“My Twitter account has been hacked.”

“Holy mackerel! You’re on Twitter? Since when?”

“Ever since I got my iPhone. What difference does that make? Can you help me or not?”

Whatever floats your boat, she thought. “What exactly do you want me to do, Dad?”

“I want you to catch the bottom feeders that did this and school ‘em.”

“That’s a little beyond the beam of my usual work,” Kathleen replied sternly.

“Are you just angling for a compliment or is this really too big for you to tackle?”

Swallowing her pride, not to mention the hook, line, and sinker, Kathleen waded into the Twitter stream. She was surprised to find out what a large mouth her father had about his personal life. And there was definitely something fishy about some of the DMs from his account.

The messages included a link with a line intended to lure unsuspecting users into clicking through. It was a classic bait and switch scheme. The site would look like a Twitter page and ask them to log in. Giving their user name and password was a gaff that allowed the sharks to access their accounts. Then they were flooded with spam and porn.

Kathleen examined the IP addresses of all the phishing sites she could find, but soon realised that was casting too wide a net. Every clue was a red herring. It was a problem of scale. She was getting crabby and decided to lay a trap. She had to catch one of them in the act and reel them in. So she set up her own account, @Gata_Ichthys, and [god help her] started tweeting.

Hi. I’m a pisces. What’s your sign?

She watched the traffic through the site carefully. She was a little fish in a big pond though and had only a few nibbles — all of them small fry. After she uploaded a profile pic of a blowfish bikini the barracuda really started running. Those boobs. It didn’t take much longer before she got a bite. This was a big one, no doubt. And she was determined it would not be one to get away.

He DMed her, Hey QT, want to see my bonefish?

Click here if you want to be my chum, she replied and included a link. Then she quickly signed off. “No remora Mr. nice guy,” she bubbled.

Watching the network traffic like a hawkfish, she was elated to see him take the bait. The link introduced a worm into his system. Soon the ‘net would close around him and his computer would tank.

She dialed her father’s number.

“This is Gil,” he answered.

What, he has an iPhone and doesn’t understand caller ID? “Hi, Dad.”

“Kat Fish! How’s the case going?”

“Swimmingly. At least one of those slimy eels won’t be shocking anyone else.”

“That’s great, honey. I’m really proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad. I’ll see you this weekend.”

Kathleen hung up the phone and closed the folder on her desk. In large letters she marked it,

Fin

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On the Menu

A recent comment by Laura Eno reminded me of this one. I’ve told this story before as part of a longer post, but it’s one of my favorites.

My first trip outside the U.S. was to Costa Rica [a beautiful and friendly country and I highly recommend you go there]. I know only a little Spanish. [The basics, you know: Cerveza, Baño, ¿Tiene una hermana?] We relied on a phrase book and the English skills and good graces of our hosts to muddle our way through. One day we were sitting in a small restaurant and I was reading the menu posted on the wall. I saw the word “Perro” and thought, “I know that word! ‘Perro’ is ‘dog’. I have dos perro at home. Holy crap, do they really serve dog here?” Then I noticed that it was followed by another word that I recognized, “Caliente” — hot. Whew! Hot dogs on the menu I can handle….

Hunger Strike

It started when the decapitated head of lettuce in my salad screamed. The carrots were skinned alive. The artichoke hearts beat softly while the flesh of the tomatoes bled onto the carnage. The celery began stalking me. Then I was served a severed ear of corn. Soon, the eyes of the potatoes were watching me. I may never eat again….

No Child of Mine

“No child of mine — ”

“Momma, please,” Samantha protested.

“Just look at what you’re wearing,” her mother continued. “Those bright colors… you’re not fit to be seen in public like that. And those shoes. How can you even walk in those?”

“You’re right, Momma. The shoes aren’t designed for comfort. They’re part of the overall look. And I’m not out in public that much — ”

“And that god-awful wig. What’s wrong with your real hair?”

“Nothing Momma.”

“And you must have a ton of make-up on your face. Do you paint that on with a roller? You have such a pretty face, it’s a shame to cover it up like that.”

Samantha’s frown could not hide her quivering lower lip.

“It’s just not decent I tell you. It’s disgraceful.”

Tears welled up in Samantha’s eyes.

“Go scrub that stuff off and change in to proper clothes. No child of mine is going to be a damn clown.”

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photo by steenslag

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Brow Down

I was in one of the malls on Sunday. [That in itself is so rare that it is almost blogworthy. But wait, there's more!] So as I walked along I noticed a store with a good size video screen in the window. Well, it was shiny and flashy and caught my attention so I looked at the name of the store: Brow Art. The huh?

They were showing a video of what I have come to learn is called eyebrow threading. Rather than tweezing or waxing or lasering or whatever form of medieval torture you prefer for contouring hairy bits, this place uses twisted threads to pull hairs out, follicle and all. [The video is not yet posted on their website as I write this, but there's a lot missing on the website. Not a great recommendation for any business in my book.] Aside from being a little creeped out watching an extreme close-up video of someone being threaded right there next to the eyeball, I’m thinking “mall rent is notoriously expensive and they can stay open just doing this?” I am in the wrong line of work. Besides, other than keeping enough space to avoid a unibrow I pretty much leave my brows alone.

Plus also too and another thing, THAT reminded me of a Saturday Night Live skit. All the stores in the mall were going out of business except one. All it sold was Scotch Tape, but all the other stores were coming in to buy tape to put up their “going out of business” signs.

I’ll be surprised if Brow Art is the last store to vacate the mall, unless everyone is coming in to get groomed for job interviews elsewhere….

A Good Book for School

Miss Loretta Bunker come to us one January and took over teachin’ duties from Missus Hutton who had slipped on the ice Christmas Eve and broke her hip. Now, we knew Miss Loretta hailed from up in Jefferson County and they just did things different up there than we do here in Gapville. Anyhow, for a teacher it seemed she shore did need more schoolin’ her own self.

She seemed to have the air let outa her the next mornin’ though. Seems Mary Louise was the only one t’bring one in and it sat there all by its lonesome on that shelf all week. It was a little worse for wear, but it was leather-bound quality and a good book for shore. It was King James version of course….

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The Well of Lost Souls

I recently found a student ID in the cafeteria and went this afternoon to the media center to turn it in. As I handed the card to the clerk she exclaimed, “A lost soul!” and began looking up the student’s schedule on the computer.

As I turned to leave I heard another clerk chime in, “I bet we could sell their souls.” And they both laughed.

“I always knew y’all were evil,” I called over my shoulder as I exited the building.

[I almost typed "I existed the building" in the sentence above. That reminds me -- don't ask why, it's just the way my brain [doesn't] work — that every time I approach a building with a sign declaring “Entrance” over the front door I think that if I ever build my dream house I will put a sign over the front door that says “Enchant” instead.]

Granted, this is not much of a story but I got a chuckle out of it. Plus, one of the media specialists sent us an email today alerting us to Literacy Week [which is next week] and gave me an idea for a Friday Flash that I now have planned for this week. Overall, I think that’s the most I have ever gotten out of our media center….

And here’s a final thought: going green is all the rage in certain circles these days. At the bottom of the email referenced above is this handy green tip, “Do you really need to print this email?” And I’m thinking, “Shoot, most of the time I don’t even need to read your emails.”

The End of Fred and Ginger

“So there IS someone else!” Ginger spits the words at me.

Seeing her lovely face all red and blotchy cuts me to the core. “Sweetheart, you know it’s not –”

“Don’t you dare call me ‘Sweetheart’ you bastard! My name is Ginger. Got it? Ginger! Not Linda. Not Julie. Not Suzanne. Ginger!”

I never tried to hide the fact that I changed their names when I edited pieces for publication. I never expected her to get upset over it though. “OK. Ginger. See, those are just pseudonyms. It’s still you in all those stories. After all, actors don’t use their real names when they play a character.”

“Hah! Actors! I knew you would bring that up. Just because people picture Astaire and Rogers when they see our names. Is that our fault? You’re the writer here. You thought this would be a good idea. It’s your fault. Yours!”

“I know Ginger, of course it’s not your fault. It’s mine. And I take full responsibility. But more than one reader has complained that these names pull them out of my — YOUR stories.”

“We don’t even look like them,” Fred adds. “In fact, we work hard to look different every week! Besides, we let you post that creepy animation a couple weeks ago. THAT was embarrassing.”

He had me there. That was embarrassing. “But, that’s part of the problem. I know you look different every week. You’re my little changelings, taking on the appearance of the characters in each story. To me, you ARE different. Not everyone can see that.”

“Pffft. If you were a better writer they might.”

Ouch! “And then,” I blunder on even with that knife in my heart, “people see Fred and Ginger two weeks in a row and think we’re continuing the same story. Do you know how hard it is to get someone back for a third week after that? They don’t need to come here to get confused.”

“See! It’s YOU, Tim. You made this mess. You said names weren’t important. I think you were just being lazy. And now you say you’re done with us?”

“I’m not done with you. You’ll still be in the drafts I write. It’s just… I need to change your names before I publish the stories.”

“Careful, folks,” Ginger waves both hands above her head, “he has an eraser and he’s not afraid to use it! Go ahead, make that stupid ‘getting rubbed out’ joke. You know you’re dying to….”

I can feel my face getting red. I’ve been pwned and punned in a single stroke. I never expected this to be so difficult… archive the old stuff, tap a few keys, a global search and replace. Now my characters are copping an attitude? What do they want from me?

“You know,” Fred chimes in, “we’ve tried to be everything for you — friends, siblings, lovers, spouses. Hell, we’ve KILLED and DIED for you. How can you just write us off like this?”

I look at them both. “I know. And I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful. It’s just… I guess I always knew it would come to this someday. In order to grow, I need to move on.”

I move the cursor to highlight their names. My hand hovers over the delete key.

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[Note: Learn more about Fred and Ginger here. ~Tim]

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Broken Bell

The bell is broken
I’ve not been hearing it
not ringing all day
and it’s really
getting on my nerves