The Word Smith

Chayman relished the passing of time. The more hours that spooled past on fate's spinning wheel, the more time he had with his words, and the more he learned. He had not come to his trade easily; when his father had announced Chayman's apprenticeship to the Word Smiths Guild, his child self had screamed and launched tantrum after tantrum. Chayman had, like so many boys in his neighborhood of crooked narrow streets, hoped of being apprenticed to the ride masters or the fire bearers. Even the light-wielding wizards of the Fiber Optics Guild would have been preferable. But the economic necessity of unloading child number four and his father's provision of a cheese wheel to the Word Smith Guild chartermaster sealed Chayman's fate. It wasn't until twenty years later, after days spent cobbling wooden word boxes and nights spent poring over endless dictionaries, when Chayman opened his first shop that he felt a tiny twinge of excitement.

Six decades beyond that day, Chayman still spent every morning pulling open the bamboo shutters of that same shop. He could mark his own small blood stains on the wooden floors, and could differentiate them from the blood spilled that cold morning from the veins of the Councilwoman. He could remember which nick in his worktable corresponded to the construction of which word box - an easier feat than perhaps one would think, given the relatively few words he had permitted entry to his shelves. And he could, for a few of those older words, tell the interested browser when was the last time, decades ago, that he had slid that word box from its shelf. Sometimes it saddened him to see those grand dames fall into disuse, but most days he accepted it with magnanimity, enjoying his privileged position as caretaker for the old, fragile words.

For truly, that's what it meant to be a Word Smith. Each day he hung his guild's motto outside his storefront, naturally preferring the advertisement of a sentence over the visual allure of a showcase window.

"Words are our tools. We have to take care of them." - C. Mejia

After having repeated that mantra thousands of times with his bruised knees against cold stone floors in the Guild's rectory, Chayman had felt it creep into his heart and overtake him with its simple poetry. Each word box that he built, shaping each hollow letter into a unified wooden word, capable of holding all the meaning they would place into it, was stamped with that motto. All of the word boxes he inherited from Ustery, who had worked in this store until the day he died, bore the same motto. The Guild dedicated their lives to it.

Chayman, being not quite old but certainly not young, and with his lungs bearing the testament of his youthful indulgence in jade weed, expected that his life had been fully dedicated to the motto and foresaw no more than two decades of future dedication. Of course, as we know, he was rather mistaken in that prediction.


* Credit for the Word Smith Guild's motto goes to this author's wonderful co-worker; many thanks for his insight and inspiration.

Sock Puppets Inc.: Anthropomorphizing Alice

I really think Alice is my favorite co-worker. Her indefatigable optimism is astonishing. Breathtaking. Bordering on insanity. How can you not like it?

Alice has worked in this office since Bingam started the business. There are dirty rumors that she got her job doing dirty things, but I suspect Alice got her job because she sold the boss on religion. Her own particular type of religion - that the machines surrounding us have lives of their own, and any malfunctions they have are of their own doing. It's actually pretty compelling, isn't it?

Today, I was leaving the office to get some much-needed fresh air and I passed Alice whispering. Curious, I slowed, and overheard her coaxing, "Come on baby, you know you can do it. That's it, come on." I thought she was coaching her dog (Maybellina) through puppy-birth over the telephone. (It happened last year; she was heartbroken to have missed the event.) "That's it, Mr. Shiny, give us the file." Nope, no puppies. Just the computer.

Alice has a theory, she tells us. The computers are part of a karmic network. They give back to us what we give them. If we talk to them nicely, keep them clean, and don't gossip about them behind their backs, they will cooperate with us. Alice's theory is so indisputably nice, so innocent, that she's really won quite a few converts. The other day I did find myself nuzzling my mouse.

Sock Puppets Inc.: Gross George

Working in an office is a lot like being an animal at the zoo. You have all different sorts of species thrown together and no matter how hard you try to escape, maul one another, or steal someone else's fruit pop, in the end, you have to get along. (Otherwise the boss will tranquilize you. Am I mixing metaphors?) I feel that this is particularly the case in our office, where we walk around subject to someone else's whims entirely, never availed with a change of clothes, and slaving away to market prosthetic eye buttons. What we do really doesn't matter (I watch the Office too) - it's just the grist for our mill, not the soul-sucking mill itself. So I'm going to vent. I'll get around to introducing myself eventually, but first I want to bias you against my co-workers so that you're more inclined to like me. That brings us to Gross George.

George, bless his heart, was the inspiration for Boss Bingam's business, for which we all labor. George lost his eye. He says it was "in the war" but I chatted up his drunk his wife once at the holiday party and she whispered, in a conspiratorial tone, that it was really a childhood mishap. A playmate launched a rock at him and, lacking arms, he wasn't able to shield himself. Who would have guessed their game of rock tag really would put an eye out.

I think George has since then been on a crusade to prove that he really does only see half of what's out there. Selective sight is excellent - it allows him to ignore the signs in the kitchen instructing employees to wash their left-overs down the drain, to disregard the stares of his coworkers when he dips his tongue in the coffee pot to test its warmth, or to fail to observe the dried mustard on his tie. It's been there for THREE MONTHS George! Good god.

Today George sneezed vociferously onto his keyboard. He then leaned over, squinted his remaining eye, and examined the bounty. We're lucky to work with such an interesting fellow.

A tribute to Jason

I can't believe it. Jay's leaving. I don't know what we're going to do without him - seriously! Who else can we call up to go see "Wristcutters: A Love Story" with? And who's going to carry on the tradition of ridiculous dwarven tactics? We'll miss you, Jay. Don't go having too much fun in Oklahoma, or wherever you end up.

Doggy Poo

Wow. I am currently watching a movie entitled, oh yes, "Doggie Poo." And yup, it's about a small, ridiculously cute pile of canine excrement. It cries. It shivers. It makes you feel bad about a pile of soil's imminent death. Sample line: "I'm just a doggy poo! What can I do?" Don't worry, kids, the doggy poo finds his way. Well, so I assume, I'm only 14 minutes into it, out of 34. If it has a sad, tragic ending, I won't let you know. I guess it's intended to be a good way to teach kids about death. "It's sad, but everything faces an end. That's the way nature intended." It is kind of a cry-baby doggy poo. Who knew.

You can catch this charming toon on Netflix's Watch Instantly. Probably elsewhere too, though I'd hate to think you'd pay for it. I mean, it just seems wrong to pay to have your heart warmed ... Right ... Geez, now I feel like a jerk for making fun of cutsie doggy poo.

Samson I am not

I got my hair cut today, for the first time in about four months. (I have a good excuse this time - letting it grow long so I could put it up at the wedding.) The lady who cut my hair was horrified at its state. She asked me where I last got it cut ("Here," I replied). She showed me how the lengths were horribly different, when they should have been pretty uniform. Hrm, I thought, that might explain why I had to do my own trimming when I got home, to eliminate the quasi rat-tail the previous stylist had left. Anyways, she cut my hair with more care than her colleague, and I'm pretty pleased. Unfortunately, I have had no noticeable additions or subtractions from my powers. I tried talking to the cat but she showed no more sign of understanding than before. (Yesterday she kept pawing at the kitchen cabinets, opening them two inches before they'd fall shut again. At one point she tried to open the doors at the hinges, and got mad at me when I tried to explain how that wouldn't work.) I also have yet to weave straw into gold, but I guess in all fairness, I didn't really try. Maybe I shouldn't give up so easily. I'll let you know how my effort to psychic-ly influence my husband works out. ("Stop eating meat ... Surprise me with a weekend in Paris ... Cut your hair ...")

A Valentine's Story

I wrote this for a short story contest. It didn't win, so where else but the Internet to put creative detritus?

My mom refers to it as “before” and “after,” but I don’t, not really. My life is a continuum, not two stages. But I can see how, for people looking at my life from the outside, some days are different than others.

As a thirtieth birthday present, my two older brothers took me on a two-week trip to Brazil. I had always wanted to visit the Amazon rainforest, but I worked a lot and didn’t travel much. So when Tom and Drew presented me with a roundtrip airplane ticket to Rio de Janeiro, I balked at having to leave work, but conceded.

Brazil caught my heart immediately. Rio’s vibrant streets spilling into beaches that embraced the ocean were a wonderful welcome. The Amazon’s mysterious green universe, where bird calls heralded brief flashes of color and astonishing insects hid in plain sight, asked me to readjust the way I sensed the world.

Back in Rio, I took an afternoon to relax in a cafe, sipping a stream of lattes while writing my boyfriend, Hinton. I knew I would arrive home before the postcard did, but I wanted to fulfill my girlfriend duties. Hinton and I enjoyed a comfortable, warm relationship, serious by the passage of time and by default. We planned to move in together soon. Sitting in the café, I wrote a few words on the postcard, and then stopped. Describing our adventures seemed trite, as I’d soon be able to tell him in person. After long bouts of distraction, I decided to give a snapshot of what I saw at that moment, the streams of colorful people and hodgepodge buildings, and to conclude with a brief, “I miss you.”

I was walking back to my hotel when someone grabbed me and swung me into an alley. My back slammed against the wall.

A voice growled something in Portuguese I didn’t understand. I mumbled back, my tongue thick with fear and confusion. After a few more growled commands, I fumbled to extract my small wad of bills, and handed it over.

The next thing I knew was pain. Searing, blinding, pain engulfed my face. I screamed and crumpled to the ground. I tried to put out the flames on my face, but it only caused my hands to burn. I got up and stumbled a few steps, and when I collapsed again, I heard voices all around me. The voices faded into a blur, and all I could think was pain.

I woke up some time later. My face was covered, with only my eyes exposed to the air. I couldn’t see much around me. After a moment, I concluded I was lying in a hospital bed, closed in by curtains. I tried to sit up, but it moved my skin, so I groaned in surprise and hurt. Drew jumped into the small space.

“Oh sweetie, oh sweetie,” he murmured, petting my hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He paused and looked at the ground.

“We found you surrounded by a crowd, down the street from the hotel. Someone threw acid on your face.”

I didn’t leave the hospital for another week. When I did, I flew directly back to Annapolis, where our parents live, to stay in my childhood room, still painted pink with bunnies around the ceiling. I hid, and didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. Hinton called often, but I told my mom to say I would call him when I was ready.

After a month, I was ready. I called him and we chatted a bit, and then he inquired delicately about my health. I told him I was fine, but different.

“Will you get better?” he asked.

“Better? I had acid thrown on my face,” I replied. “I don’t think there’s a very good cure for that.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “Listen, I promise I’ll come and visit soon, in just a few weeks. Just give me some time to sort out my plans.”

He never came, and I never heard from him again. I didn’t pursue it, because I understood. I did wonder if he got my postcard.

As the months passed, the claustrophobia of home and family pushed me out into the world. It took time to become better at refocusing myself, disregarding strangers, but I did. Ignoring the wide-eyed looks of surprise was impossible, but I imagined they were looking at someone else, someone I didn’t know. I think they were.

One night, on a girl’s night out, my friend Laurella knocked back a shot of vodka and looked straight at me.

“When are you going to start dating?” she asked.

I laughed. “Dating? Hmm … That will be about … never. Come on, people like me can’t date.”

“People like you? What does that mean. You’re being ridiculous,” she pressed. “You’re fabulous! The right guy is out there for you.”

I stared into my glass and swirled the contents around. I could feel my fears and pain rising into my throat, but I pushed them down with a drink.

“You know when people tell each other, ‘Oh, he’s way out of your league,’ or, ‘You don’t have a chance with her,’ they’re not talking about dazzling personalities,” I replied. “They’re talking about looks. That’s the first stage of attraction, right?”

“Attraction goes nowhere without personality, though,” Laurella retorted. “It’s the whole package that counts.”

“Yeah,” Sandra interjected. “I have some friends who weren’t physically attracted at first but they found themselves interested in each other as their friendship grew.”

I shrugged, and let them talk.

“What about internet dating?” suggested Mayra.

The other girls chimed in, but I told them I didn’t want to hide. I am who I am.

But loneliness wears, and, well … I set up an online profile – without a photograph. I took care in writing my profile, saying nothing about my appearance but being otherwise expressive. I could check off my physical attributes – blue eyes, slim, 5’4” tall. There wasn’t a box for “pretty,” thank God.

I admired numerous profiles of men, but I never wrote to a single one. I decided that if there were someone who’d be interested in me, he’d find me first. For weeks, the only messages for me were spammers and creeps asking if I was hefty and looking for a lay.

Then, Jeremy wrote. He told me that my profile intrigued him and wanted to know more about me. His profile didn’t have a picture either, which made me mistrustful (ironic, I know), but I put that aside and I wrote him.

Soon, we were corresponding several times a day. I got butterflies in my stomach every time I checked to see if I had a new email (which was pretty constant since all I was doing was working at home on my computer). After a few weeks, I gave him my phone number.

That night, the phone rang and the caller ID displayed an unknown number. My heart spun into my stomach, and I almost didn’t answer. When I did, his voice replied, smooth and deep, although a little nervous. I laughed, and we both relaxed. Our conversation unfolded easily, and the night flew by until the next thing I knew, I was wrapped up in my sheets with the phone barely cradled in my hand, exhausted and ready to fall asleep, but unwilling to hang up.

We talked like that for months. Jeremy asked, a few times, if we could meet, but I demurred, after explaining to him what happened in Rio. He told me I seemed beautiful, but I resisted. He told me he was no Cary Grant, but I’d seen a picture of him, and I knew he wasn’t on par with the woman in my mirror either.

I know it’s a regular refrain in these days of online fantasies, but I feel it so I’ll say it again: our conversations sparkle, and when I talk to him I feel spiritually connected like I’ve never felt before. But can I trust him? Do I deserve to be loved?

I’m writing this on a Friday night, sitting here at my computer in a blue silk dress, with my blond waves styled loose around my face. Tonight I’m going on a date. We’ll meet tonight. I’m scared, and I hope my eyes don’t water up and mess up my mascara – not like the mascara helps that much anyways.

I ask myself why I am doing this. Why open myself to the judgment of a man I don’t know? Who’s likely to avert his eyes and try not to look at my face? Why go on a date that could end as soon as it begins? I guess I don’t know. I just have to try.

All text © 2008