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June 19, 2009
Friday
No one is paying attention...
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The substitute teacher
The cacophony caused by a small room stuffed with pre-pubescent children was similar to the sound of a flock of squabbling seagulls. Miss, as she was known since none of the children would bother to remember her name, had long given up trying to be heard. She sat on her chair at the front of the room reading a tattered book while objects flew across the room. The bell rang followed by the strange silence of an empty room. ‘How did it go?’ she was asked, ‘Horrible’ she replied ‘no one is paying attention… and my book is falling apart’.
Posted by: Soraya at June 21, 2009 8:04 PM · Permalink
The meeting went long, so I asked who was responsible for that.
"Finland," said Joe. "The meeting went long because of Finland."
"Fine," I said. "Let's thank Finland."
We tried to open the windows so we could shout THANK YOU FINLAND at the same time, but like all office buildings, the windows were sealed shut.
It took just three hits with a heavy chair to shatter the glass.
"THANK YOU FINLAND!" we all shouted at once.
Except for Joe. He was laughing.
"You're all morons," he said. "Finland can’t hear you. Those windows face South. Finland is to the East."
Posted by: Laurence Simon at June 22, 2009 3:26 PM · Permalink
The bird seller always wore a white suit with white shoes. The cages too, he’d painted white. To the boys that caught the birds he didn’t pay much, only enough to keep them out of school. He sold doves, pigeons, canaries and love birds. But there was one bird he’d never sell. It was not a rare bird but he watched over it like a hawk. He fed it the best seed, changed its water often and kept it in the shade. Nevertheless every night the dream reoccurred; the small bird pecking out his eyes, blood on his white suit.
Posted by: ryan anthony licata at June 23, 2009 4:50 AM · Permalink
No one is paying attention. They never do. Yet still I stand here, preaching my sermon from the altar and reading from the book. The good book. The book that no one seems to listen to anymore. I sigh before they come in, and I sigh once I have shaken their hands at the door and seen them out. I wonder if they know that I know they are not paying attention. Then I look up at Him, hanging on his cross with his sad eyes, and I realise all that matters is that he is paying attention to me.
Posted by: Nicholas James at June 23, 2009 6:20 PM · Permalink
‘No one is paying attention … everyone thinks I’m in denial.’
‘Kate, I’m sure this is tough on you, you know, having no idea where she is … ’
‘I get it, you of all people, the one I thought I could most depend upon, doubts me as well!’
‘Kate, that’s not it at all …’
‘Well, what is it then, Nige?’
‘Why don’t you try to rest … rest is especially important for you right now.’
‘You’re not listening to me. Why aren’t you listening to me?’
‘I’m listening, but I’m also worried about you.’
‘She’ll be Okay, okay?’
‘Come here, come, that’s it.’
Posted by: Anonymous S at June 25, 2009 7:21 PM · Permalink
A Furtive Caesura
My entrance is coming up in thirty seconds. I can hear the pirate's brassy threats and Lisa's pleading replies. I'm about to sweep in and save her from the villain. I brush at the curtain with my sword and check the timing. Twenty seconds left.
I duck away from the bright stage entrance and slip the note into her red canvas bookbag. I'm back at the curtain with three seconds to go. One deep breath, and I'm striding onto the stage, sword at the ready, howling for the pirate to let Lisa go. She'll find out about the breakup later.
Posted by: Kiri at June 26, 2009 11:09 PM · Permalink
The weekly political meeting was always a laugh. Earnest young men with bad skin would commandeer the microphone to champion the benefits of communal living. Inevitably they would end the meeting with a rant, hectoring us for leaving our smalls drying over the hot water pipes in the bathrooms, roundly berating us for not showing sufficient respect for our comrades and scolding us for not paying attention. We'd sit in the back row with our knitting, silently resolving to concoct ever more voluminous undergarments to display in the shared spaces. The parachute silk from the dead airman was very useful.
Posted by: zennt at June 27, 2009 7:53 AM · Permalink
The weekly political meeting was always a laugh. Earnest young men with bad skin would commandeer the microphone to champion the benefits of communal living. Inevitably they would end the meeting with a rant, hectoring us for leaving our smalls drying over the hot water pipes in the bathrooms, roundly berating us for not showing sufficient respect for our comrades and scolding us for not paying attention. We'd sit in the back row with our knitting, silently resolving to concoct ever more voluminous undergarments to display in the shared spaces. The parachute silk from the dead airman was very useful.
Posted by: zennt at June 27, 2009 7:54 AM · Permalink
A voice cried out, "A-ten-SHUN!"
The soldiers standing in line at the post banking facility snapped to attention, eyes straight ahead, hands cupped at their sides.
No one moved as the thieves jumped over the counter and emptied the cash drawers.
No one moved as they entered the open vault, stuffing their bags with greenbacks.
No one moved as they walked casually to their car and drove off the post, making a clean getaway.
When the MPs arrived, the soldiers were still standing rigidly at attention until someone shouted, "At ease!"
The infamous conditioned reflex gang had struck once again.
Posted by: Owl Creek Observer at July 1, 2009 2:37 PM · Permalink