Category: Randomness (Page 2 of 2)

Sandman

And Then I Tried to Convince You to Read Neil Gaiman’s “Sandman”

October 26, 2020 /

Remember that time we ran into each other at that coffee shop, and you ordered that drink you like and I ordered that drink I like, and we sat at that table near the window, and then I started blabbing about Sandman? Remember that?

“Here we go,” you sighed.

“I know,” I said.  “Another book recommendation. But I really think you’ll like this one. It’s a series of comic books by Neil Gaiman.”

“You always talk about that guy.”

“I know. It’s because he’s the GOAT. Did I tell you about the time I met him at a signing?”

“At least four times.”

“Sorry. But you’d talk about him all the time too if you read Sandman. Now I know what you’re going to say, and I said the same thing. You don’t read comic books. But these are more like graphic novels.”

“That’s what people call comics when they want people who don’t read comics to read them.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “But this time I mean it. Each story appears individually in comics, but the story arcs are collected into trade paperback volumes. You can click this link to learn more.”

“Are you breaking the fourth wall?” you asked.

“Kinda. Anyhoo, Sandman. First thing: It’s an amazing feat of storytelling. The greater story arc is divided into 10 smaller story arcs, which are in turn divided into something like five or six smaller ones. They range from horror to fantasy to historical fiction to humor, and they’re really well-written. Plus the art is sweet.”

You shrugged and sipped your drink. “Yeah, but it’s a comic book series featuring another Whatever-Man. I’m so sick of superhero stuff.”

“That’s the thing. Sandman isn’t a superhero. They barely even call him Sandman—he’s usually referred to as Dream, or Morpheus, or the Prince of Stories. He’s the guy who creates and regulates the Dreaming, a.k.a. the world we visit when we sleep. And he’s actually more of an antihero.”

“So no tights? No masks? No crime fighting?”

“Well it is a DC property, so there are some Batman-ish crossovers early on.” I fluttered my hand as if to wipe that all away. “But those dissipate later in the series. I promise, it’s not a superhero story. It’s contemporary magical realism combined with ancient mythology, told in both long-form and contained short story modes.”

At that point, I noticed how often you were glancing at the exit. Fortunately, you were very kind and decided to stay a while longer. You asked, “What would I like about it?”

“Well,” I said, easing back in my chair and inwardly smiling, because I was about to experience the joy of soliloquizing on a favorite subject. “The second volume is kinda perfect for Halloween. It’s about a serial killer convention and it’s super creepy. There’s also an issue where—minor spoiler—Satan quits being Satan and offers the key of Hell to Dream, then all these gods from ancient religions show up to bid on Hell itself. And in one of the most famous issues, William Shakespeare and his acting troupe perform A Midsummer Night’s Dream for the real Titania and Oberon. Puck shows up too. It’s great.”

“Whoa,” you said. “Sounds like quite the story. By the way, why didn’t you write all this as a generic blog post with a title like, ‘Why You Should Read Neil Gaiman‘s Sandman?'”

I shrugged. “I thought about it, but I figured this form would be more fun. And also way more pretentious.”

“True,” you agreed. “But anyway, the thing I find annoying about comic books is the entry point. The continuity shifts all the time and the villains never die and there’s no end to any story. If I wanted to read Spiderman, for instance, I’d have to sift through decades of character history, plus endless reboots and crossovers. There’s no way to read it all!”

At this point, I was feeling like a talking head on a postgame sports show. “That’s what’s so great about Sandman. You start with Volume one, Preludes and Nocturnes, and then finish with Volume 10, The Wake. Have I mentioned they have great titles? Granted, there are some spinoffs I heard were bad, plus another spinoff featuring Dream’s sister. Neil wrote it, it’s good. And there’s a prequel that’s also an epilogue, which is another sweet feat of storytelling. But basically, as long as you read one through 10, you get the complete story.”

“What if I’m not ready to commit?” you asked. “Because this sounds like a major commitment.”

“I prefer to view it as a lovely adventure. But I get it. You could start with the Audible audio adaptation, which features James McAvoy, Martin Sheen, Andy Serkis, and Kat Dennings. It’s fantastic. There’s also a Netflix series in the works, so we have that to look forward to. But if you read the comics now, you could be one of those snooty people like me who always reminds fans of the show that the books were better.”

“I’d rather not,” you said. “But you’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“So do you think you’ll read it?” I asked.

You finished the rest of that drink you like so much. “I’ll consider it. Now who’s picking up the check?”

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their cats, and their dog. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories that make readers laugh.

Tapas Restaurants

Why Tapas Restaurants Fill Me with Rage

July 20, 2020 /

There are few things in life I hate more than tapas restaurants.

If you’ve never been before, here’s the gist. You don’t order normal meals at tapas places. Instead, you order several small plates which (surprise!) you’re expected to share with your tablemates. The idea is, ostensibly, to create a communal experience and sample several entrees in one sitting.

In reality, tapas restaurants are one of the worst ideas humankind has ever devised, up there with Crocs and Windows Vista.

Before we go any further, let me be clear: I’m not dumping on Spain or its people (where tapas originated). I’m dumping on the American version of tapas, those allegedly trendy, blatantly overpriced restaurants that fool us into buying glorified appetizers at revolting prices (plus the f-ing gratuity). Allow me to elaborate.

First problem: I have no idea how much food to order. Are three dishes enough? Or five? Maybe 10? More? The waiter/waitress always offers some nebulous answer such as, “One dish usually serves about 2 to 8 customers,” or, “Most patrons find this item rather filling.”

Thanks, Raphael—that wasn’t helpful at all. Anyway, no matter what we do, we’ll inevitably order too much or too little.

This whole futile process also takes forever. The group elects a spokesperson, probably the hungriest one present, then listens to said spokesperson mangle the entrée names. If they forget something, I can’t blame them; the poor sap has to remember 20 different dishes!

After some hangry small talk, Raphael returns with a quarter loaf of bread. This I can handle. Bread is a legitimate appetizer. It’s not masquerading as the main course, unlike everything else listed in curly font within the leather-bound menu.

The bread only lasts a few bites, so I sigh and gaze wistfully at the open kitchen. Our main courses won’t be ready for another fortnight or so, but in the meantime, I’ll settle for a food-high via the smell of other peoples’ dinners as they’re bustled past.

When the food finally does arrive, I’ll admit, some is tasty—if you can get it. With upwards of 10 dishes crammed onto the tabletop, most plates end up out of reach. If I’m lucky, I snag the gravy-laced beef and load up before anyone else. If not, I’m stuck with the pickled cauliflower soufflé, which not even vast amounts of cheese can make palatable.

That’s a universal constant of tapas restaurants, by the way. Someone reads a bizarre concoction off the menu and suggests ordering it. I’d never sample such crap in a million years, but I’m trying to be polite, so I smile and congratulate this person on their adventurousness, all the while wondering if cannibalism is the best solution here.

I goop the experiment onto my plate, then pray there’s enough of the tasty dish left to satiate my raging stomach. Unlikely, since it’s quite the challenge to portion properly.

When the tasty dish appears, I’m presented with a frustrating conundrum: Do I take whatever’s left, or should I leave a scoop for some other schmo? It’s always the latter, because emptying the plate feels like splurging during a famine.

If tapas portions were reasonable, this wouldn’t be an issue. However, the plates look like they’re prepared for Keebler Elves. What’s worse, while I’m trying to eat, I get nudged on both sides by new dishes I don’t even want. So I discard my utensils and pass the food along, all the while pretending this is all so much fun.

At some point during the meal, I must excuse myself to the bathroom. Not that I actually need the facilities; I haven’t consumed nearly enough food to warrant a bowel movement. Instead, I’m going there to mutter about how irritating this situation is. “Tapas restaurants,” I growl at my reflection, probably sounding like Robert Durst. “I’d rather watch the film adaptation of Cats than eat here.”

If only there was something in the bathroom I might eat, but they’re out of paper towels and I won’t stoop so low as to try the urinal cake. So I wash my hands, return to the table, and smile apologetically whenever my empty stomach gurgles too loudly.

This is the part where I become envious and straight up angry at my fellow diners, even if they’re friends or family. Because while I’m force-feeding myself cauliflower, I notice somebody across the table poking at a half-eaten slab of gravy-laced beef.

How dare you!? I think to myself. You got the gravy-laced beef and you’re not even going to finish it? Don’t you realize how lucky you are!?

Sadly, none of this torment rivals the most infuriating moment of the night. That comes when the check arrives.

Though the dining party usually wants separate checks, nobody ever remembers to tell Raphael pre-meal. If he’s sharp, Raphael might ask preemptively—perhaps noticing that nobody appears to be related—but most often it’s only remembered at meal’s end. At which point Raphael invents some convoluted excuse about why he won’t do it. “The cash register—it’s part of a union! I can’t ask it to separate checks!”

So that’s great. Where’s the person with the closest amalgamation of a mathematics degree? They need to parse this tapestry-length receipt so we can pay and get the hell out of here.

This is all assuming we didn’t make the mistake of ordering dessert. Because now that we’re at a tapas restaurant and we’re all treated as one entity, Raphael will totally foist some sweets on us. If somebody decides they’re craving sugar, they’ll be disappointed if I’m not. So now I’ve been guilted into dropping another 20 bucks on some banana-flavored ooze that takes the kitchen another half-hour to concoct.

Also, before I forget, there’s something else I’d like to complain about. Unless you’re on Top Chef, I don’t give a crap about the presentation of the dish. If there’s more empty plate than there is food, I’m gonna be furious. I don’t care about negative space, or artful streaks of sauce, or garnish. None of those things make me less hungry. I can dig art, but when I come to a restaurant and pay money for food, I want food. Not a goddamn Van Gogh.

Anyway, back to the bill. By now we’ve discovered the restaurant’s 20% gratuity tip, a term which I’ve always found oxymoronic. Nobody feels gratitude toward anybody for being forced to pay anything. Whatever. I hate these stupid places, anyway.

Now that my wallet is $80 lighter, it’s time to reflect on this experience. How many stars would I give it? Zero! Negative five! I just spent my hard-earned cash on Happy Meal-portions of mediocre food I had to share with a bunch of people I now despise. No thank you, world.

Once we get outside, someone invariably remarks, “Wasn’t that fun? Shouldn’t we do that again sometime?”

Depending on who this person is, I feel like punching them in the neck, or at least challenging them on their definition of “fun.” What else do you find fun, former friend? Self-immolation?

Instead, I say nothing. I just nurse the grievance like a Neanderthal sharpening a wooden spear. There’s no vitriol left in me, anyway—I’ve poured it all into this essay, or rant, or whatever you want to call it.

So I silently seethe the whole drive back. I’m just trying to hold it together until I arrive home. Once there, I’m going to gorge on Cheez-Its.

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their cats, and their dog. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories about coffee.

Two Pitchers

April 6, 2020 /

Author’s Note: A video version of this post is also available here.

Nature’s Classroom is a sleepaway camp somewhere in New York State. As a fun excursion, sixth-grade students from Goff Middle School took an annual trip there to learn about conservation, wildlife, active living, and how to make convincing fart sounds while people were trying to sleep.

Nature’s Classroom was my first extended absence from home. I’d never spent an entire week without my parents, my sister, my dog Daisy, or my Game Boy Advance. It was a rough time for me. I remember being stressed and nervous and uncomfortable.

They had many rules at Nature’s Classroom. Don’t waste food, always consider your biological footprint, don’t jab each other in the stomach as a show of adolescent dominance (yes, we really did this before going to bed; we called it “Poke Wars”). Most often, we were lectured about proper nutritional habits. For example, the dangers of soda.

Now I’d be fine without soda. It’s not like I poured Fanta over my cereal or gargled with Moxie. I’m not Buddy the Elf or anything. But once in a while, soda was a special treat my parents allowed me to indulge. For instance, at a bowling alley birthday party one year, I remember informing them that my friends and I were “drunk on Sprite.” So yeah. I was a fan of soda.

That fandom didn’t go over well at Nature’s Classroom. One counselor, a dreadlocked, khaki shorts-sporting dude—we’ll call him Alfonso—preached the dangers of the beverage.

“Soda makes you fat,” he said, using the same grave tone Obi-Wan chose when describing how Anakin killed those younglings. “Soda gives you cavities. Soda hooks you with bright colors and carbonated fizz. But soda’s got zero nutritional value.”

Okay, I thought. Can I have some soda now?

The answer, tragically, was no. They did not serve soda at Nature’s Classroom, nor did they offer anything with even trace amounts of sugar in it. Our only options were water, milk, and some murky brown substance they claimed was unsweetened iced tea.

Yet on the last day of this week-long ordeal, Alfonso and his cohorts relented.

“You guys have been awesome,” he announced. “Like, a super group. So as a thank you, we wanted to give y’all something special…”

I gripped the lunch table. My eyes went wide. Soda, I thought. Say soda!

“Lemonade! We’ve got lemonade for everyone!”

Maybe not the gift I’d wished for, but I didn’t want to be rude. And as far as I was aware, the sugar content of the two beverages were pretty much the same. It would do.

“There’s a catch, though,” Alfonso added, lifting a soil-stained finger. “Your table has to finish your water pitcher before you get your lemonade, okay? Water, then lemonade.”

That was another Nature’s Classroom thing. You had to share a pitcher of water amongst the seven other poor saps at the table. I’m not sure what the lesson was there, except learning to hate the kids who poured too slowly.

Alright Alfonso, I thought as I downed my first glass. I’ll play your game, you sick bastard. 

I felt a little like Gollum must’ve felt around the Ring. The only thing standing between me and my precious: This stupid pitcher of boring water.

Frustratingly, nobody at the table took more than a cup. They were busy reminiscing about all the fun times they shared the past few days, about how happy they were to see their families again.

Didn’t you people hear what Alfonso just said!? I wanted to scream at them. Lemonade! We can have lemonade! Look, I know it’s not root beer, but come on. Help me out, here!

Nobody did. So I put the team on my back. I felt like Jordan in the fourth quarter of the ‘98 Finals, Game Six. I must’ve slammed at least that many glasses of water, if not more.

Then came my reward. Alfonso nodded approvingly, then returned with a pitcher of golden lemonade. And I thought, You know what? I worked hard for this. No. I earned this. I deserve as much lemonade as I want.

I didn’t even bother sharing with my ungrateful tablemates. From that pitcher, I’d estimate I drank a good 75, 80 percent.

“Okay,” said Mr. B., my sixth grade science teacher. “Get on the bus, people. We’re going home.”

#

I think I made it 30 minutes before the pain set it.

You know that scene in Alien when the creature bursts out of John Hurt’s chest? That’s what my groin area felt like. I expressed my growing discomfort to my friends, Jimmy and Jeremy. They’re still two of my best friends to this day—though after recalling this story, I have to wonder why.

I was looking for some encouraging words from my pals, you know? Maybe a, “Hey, you’ll be alright!” or a, “Don’t worry, your bladder won’t be totally ruined.” Instead, they pointed out every rushing body of water we passed, whether real or imaginary.

“Did you see that garden hose over there?” Jimmy asked, tapping on the window. “I think it was trickling.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Jeremy countered from across the aisle. “I heard it was, like, gushing. Just spraying everywhere.”

This was not helping. With about two hours to go, I removed my seatbelt—despite what my parents would advise—to relieve the pressure on my abdomen. I also hunkered down in the seat and covered my face, and maybe cried a little.

At this point, one of the chaperones said, “You guys better lay off that kid. He looks like he’s gonna pee his pants.” An astute observation.

At about the halfway mark, I turned to Mr. B. and pleaded, “Mr. B. Can we please stop the bus? I really, really need to go to the bathroom.”

To which the merciless Mr. B. snapped, “Nope. We are not stopping.” Evidently, he hadn’t had as much fun at Nature’s Classroom as the kids.

So that left me with two options. Option A: Endure the pain and try my best to ignore Jim and Jer’s aquatic quips. Or, Option B: Release, and be forever known as that kid who peed his pants somewhere along I-90.

I wasn’t a stellar test taker, but even I knew the answer to that one. So I gritted my teeth, squeezed my crotch, and reminded myself, There’s no place like home. Or better yet, a bathroom.

Miraculously, I arrived at the Goff parking lot with mostly dry Levi’s (there might’ve been a few dribbles). There awaited everyone’s parents and siblings to greet us. They stood on the sidewalk, waving and smiling and pointing and waving some more. Finally, after so long apart, we could all go home together.

Not now, family.

Before the bus even stopped, I was ramming fellow classmates aside. I had no choice, really; I was near the back and I couldn’t afford to be polite. When I reached the front, I leapt off the steps and ran not toward, but away from my family. It hurt to do it, but it hurt more to hold in all that lemonade.

For the record, I did make it to the bathroom before the floodgates opened. I stood at the urinal for oh, 15 minutes, give or take. Still the most relieving bathroom break I’ve ever taken.

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories about cats.

My Pitch for an “X-Files” Episode

March 23, 2020 /

Author’s Note: A video version of this post is also available here.

There was a time when random people could write X-Files episodes. There was also a time when The X-Files was still on the air. Neither of those times are now.

Okay, I’m kidding with the first claim. You at least had to write a spec script good enough to grab the attention of the people making the show. You then had to pitch it to them, endure some rewrites, and then maybe, just maybe, your script would appear on Fox on Friday evenings.

Anywho, I won’t write a spec script, even though The X-Files is my favorite show of all time. I abandoned screenwriting once I completed my college studies in it six years ago (plus, I’ve since lost the requisite software). Instead, I’ll pitch my X-Files story to you, kind reader, just for funzies.

I claim no ownership over Mulder, Scully, or the show itself. They’re the intellectual property of Chris Carter (the show’s creator), the Fox network, and whomever else. Consider this some harmless fan fiction.

An Overview of The X-Files

For those who’ve seen the show, feel free to skip ahead. For those who haven’t, The X-Files is a TV show that premiered on Fox on September 10, 1993. It’s a show about two FBI agents: Fox Mulder (played by real-life sex addict David Duchovny) and Dana Scully (played by secret British person Gillian Anderson). Each week, Mulder and Scully investigate cases with strong elements of the paranormal, ranging from alien abductions to flukeworm-human hybrids to murderous swarms of cats (I’m not making that last one up). Mulder believes in the paranormal ever since witnessing his sister’s abduction by aliens. Scully is a scientist, and she therefore applies logic and reason to their investigations. This conflict forms the foundation of most episodes.

Also, Mulder loves sunflower seeds. That’ll come up in this episode.

And Now, My Pitch

The name of my episode is “Bag of Peanuts.” The story goes like this…

Cold Open

Five guys (late 20s, early 30s) teeter down a deserted stretch of beach at night. A few carry beer bottles, one has a cooler, and one tosses a football to another. The subtitle tells us we’re in Secluded Glen, Massachusetts (though their accents should tell us that, too).

“I can’t believe he did this to us, Mahk,” says one guy. He’s wearing a number 12 New England Patriots jersey. “Twenty years in Fahxborough and now he’s leavin’ us for Flahrida. It’s a freakin’ disastah.”

Mark receives the pass, tosses it back to the guy in the jersey. “I know, bro, I know. It’s sad. There’s no more loyalty in sports, you know? Players just hop around from city to city. It’s like they’re—I dunno. Like they’re tourists.” Mark sniffs. “You guys smell that?”

“Yeah. You faht or somethin’?”

They share a chuckle. Mark goes deep for a pass, then trips over something on the shore. Something gooey.

“Think I found what smells,” he says.

There’s a huge mass of…something…washed up on the beach. Hard to guess, but it appears to be globs of random organic, aquatic mass that’s been squished together. Bits of an octopus here, part of a jellyfish there. One of our guys eloquently describes it as, “A whole hunka crap.”

Mark and the others lean closer to it. Too close.

Suddenly, a tentacle reaches out of the mass and snags Mark around the neck. There’s a momentary struggle, then the entire mass rolls back into the ocean and vanishes, like it was never there.

That leaves four guys on shore. “Mahk!” shouts the guy in the Pats jersey. “Mahk? Where are ya, Mahk!?”

Cut to…

Credits

(Even if you haven’t seen the show, you probably know the intro music.) Now for the episode.

Act One, Scene One

Special Agent Fox Mulder sits on a crowded beach wearing sunglasses, a waterproof pouch, and, for some reason, a red speedo. Unlike the other beachgoers, he’s not reading a book or going for a swim. He’s simply peering out at the horizon. Every once in a while, he pops a cashew into his mouth, then grimaces. A siren whines on the main road behind the beach.

Mulder’s phone rings. He wipes sand from the screen, then answers. “I’m already sunburned, Scully.”

“Well hello to you, too.” Special Agent Dana Scully is on the other end, calling from the FBI office. “Sounds like you’re having a fun vacation.”

Mulder sighs. “Hello Scully. About as much fun as one can have at a public beach.” A dog bounds out of the water with a frisbee in its mouth, then shakes itself dry—right next to Mulder. “I can barely contain my excitement.”

“Maybe you just need a few days to unwind.” Scully tries. “To get your mind off work.”

“My mind’s always on work.” A volleyball lands mere inches from Mulder’s beach chair, making him jump. “For instance, if I stood up and sang David Bowie’s ‘Space Oddity’ loud enough, do you think aliens might come and take me away from all this?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Mulder grumbles. “They don’t even have sunflower seeds.”

“Who doesn’t? The aliens?”

“Secluded Glen. This town. The convenience store clerk said the tourists must’ve bought them all. So instead I got…” He gives the package an icy glare. “Cashews.”

“It could be worse, Mulder. You could be down here doing expense reports with me.”

Another siren whines on the road. “You know, Scully, my family used to come to this town every summer when I was a kid. Only took a couple hours to drive here from Martha’s Vineyard. Back then the beaches were empty and the roads were clear. The sunflower seeds were plentiful. My sister and I would bury each other in the sand. One time we even nursed a horseshoe crab back to health.”

“You what?”

“But now Secluded Glen’s been taken over by…” He glowers at the people around him.

“Tourists?” Scully finishes.

“Exactly.”

“Mulder.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re a tourist.”

“I am not a tourist. I’m a…” More sirens wail. Mulder turns, watches a cop car zip down the road. He sees siren lights flashing down the beach. “Can I call you back, Scully? I think I might’ve found a way to unwind.”

“Sure. Go get yourself some sunscreen.”

They hang up. Still gazing at the lights, Mulder reaches for his bag. He feels around on the sand, finds nothing. He looks down. No bag.

Mulder peers up at the sky and sings softly. “Ground control to Major Tom…”

Scene Two

Mulder trudges up the beach wearing his sunglasses, the waterproof pouch, some water shoes, and of course, the speedo. He’s also clutching his cashews.

An older woman wearing aviator shades and a sheriff’s badge frowns at him. “The nude beach is a couple towns over,” she says.

Mulder reaches into the waterproof pouch and shows her his ID. “Special Agent Fox Mulder. FBI.”

“Jean Sitwell, County Sheriff. Is it Dress Down Day at the Bureau today, Agent Mulder?”

“I’m on vacation,” Mulder counters. “And someone took my beach bag. Anyway, I thought I might lend a hand over here. Seems like you’re busy.”

Sitwell flips open a notepad. “Missing persons case. Mark Starr, age 30, Caucasian, brown eyes, brown hair, last seen with four friends on this beach. They were celebrating a bachelor party, and Mark was the best man. They get drunk, walk down to the beach, something pulls Mark in, his friends call us.”

“Wait.” We can see the excitement on Mulder’s face. “Something pulled him in?”

“Let me remind you, Agent Mulder, that this was a bachelor party. All four witnesses were—and probably still are—very drunk.”

“What exactly did they see?”

Sitwell sighs, then reads off her notepad. “They think they saw a large mass of dead fish…or octopuses, or jellyfish, or maybe all three. They said it smelled terrible and looked like a dead carcass.”

“A globster,” says Mulder.

“A what?”

“A globster. It’s the commonly accepted term for an abnormal phenomenon describing mysterious, unidentifiable carcasses that wash ashore from the ocean. The St. Augustine Monster, the Stronsay Beast, the Montauk Monster, the Chilean Blob. Scientists often dismiss them as misidentified corpses of basking sharks or manatees or other known marine life.”

“And your point is?”

“My point is, this is the first globster in history that’s attacked someone. You’d better close the beach, sheriff.”

Sitwell snorts a humorless laugh. “And what? Put out an APB for a lobster?”

“Globster.”

“All due respect Agent Mulder, but you’re sounding like a crazy person right now. Those boys were drunker than skunks last night. It’s a sad thing, but Mark probably fell in and the other four couldn’t save him. Now you wanna inspect the scene, that’s just fine. You wanna talk to them, go right ahead. The groom’s name is Norm Sherman—I’ll even give you his number. But close the beach and go hunting for a clump of seaweed? No sir. We’re not doing that.”

Mulder sighs. He peers down at the package in his hand. He offers it to Sheriff Sitwell. “Cashew?”

Scene Three

Scully clicks away at her computer, looking dreadfully bored. Her phone rings and she answers it. “That was fast.”

“I’ve got a piece of globster for you.” We switch back to Mulder and see him peering into his waterproof pouch. There’s a gooey, jelly-like substance inside, with bits of dead stuff floating in it.

“You got me a lobster?”

“Globster. Possibly a homicidal globster. I could use your help if you’re up for it.”

“Does this mean your vacation’s over?”

“Actually, this is turning into the best vacation I’ve ever had.”

Scully smiles. “I’ll be on the next flight to Boston.” She hangs up.

Scene Four

Mulder gets into his car and drives away. The cops have already gone. And yet we remain on the beach. The camera inspects the beachgoers: people playing volleyball, little kids building sandcastles, people tanning. We drift out to the water.

A woman floats on her back, whistling, having a grand old time. Then she jerks upright. “What was…?”

She looks down and sees a massive shape float beneath her. She screams and swims madly toward land.

This inspires other nearby swimmers to do the same. One of them, a young kid, sees the shape and draws his own conclusion.

“Shahk! Shahk!”

Now there’s complete chaos on the beach. People running and shrieking everywhere. Meanwhile, nobody seems to notice a big conglomerate mass of decomposing tissue wash up on the shore. No one except a dude wearing swim trunks, a “Secluded Glen, est. 1901” shirt , and a visor.

“It’s dead!” he shouts. “Yo, people! Calm down, alright? Whatever it is, it’s dead!” He notices something on the side of the mass and gasps.

It looks like a stretched out human face, oozing and juicy but still identifiable. Viewers will recognize it as Mark’s face. (Gross!)

The dude recoils, but too late. Tentacles reach out from within the glob and pull him in. Then the entire mass rolls back into the waves.

The dude’s visor sinks into the sand.

(Here’s where the commercials come in. Ads for Charmin or something.)

Act Two, Scene One

Mulder (now wearing a pastel Hawaiian shirt, khakis, and flip flops) meets Norm Sherman a hotel bar.

“You don’t look like an FBI agent,” Norm remarks.

“If I’d known I’d be working a case on my vacation, I would’ve brought a tie.”

“Oh. So you’re a tourist.”

“I’m not, I…” Mulder sighs. He turns his attention to the bartender. “Miss, do you have any sunflower seeds?”

“Nope. Almonds, though. Want those?”

Mulder eats a couple throughout the scene. He looks pained while doing it.

Norm recounts the encounter to Mulder, noting that the creature didn’t seem to care about any of the five guys except Mark.

“What do you think it wanted with him?” Mulder asks. “What made him different from everyone else?”

Norm throws out a few possibilities: Mark was the only one in grad school, the only one who spoke another language, the only one who’d been to Canada. Finally, with a great deal of uncertainty, he concludes, “Mahk was the only one who didn’t grow up in the Glen, I guess. The rest are from around heah.”

Mulder thanks Norm for his time, pays his tab, and departs. He does not take any almonds.

Scene Two

On his way back to his car, Mulder checks his phone, sees a missed call from a Massachusetts area code. He calls back, gets Sheriff Sitwell.

“Agent Mulder, I’ve been trying to reach you. You’d best get your ass back to the beach. There’s been another one.”

Scene Three

Meanwhile, Scully’s plane touches down in Boston. She gets a rental car, drives. Eventually, she passes a sign for Secluded Glen.

She arrives at the local lab, flashes her ID, enters. Now to inspect the substance Mulder collected at the scene.

Scully sets the specimen on a slab and starts a recording. Then she turns to grab some instruments. “Current time is 1:05 pm, eastern standard. Beginning initial examination of apparently dead tissue, what Agent Mulder has dubbed a…”

She turns back to the exam table. It’s empty.

“…Globster.”

Scully inspects the room. The specimen is inching across the floor, sort of like a worm. She goes to pick it up and it bites her finger. She then traps it beneath a container.

“Still better than expense reports,” she says to the glob.

Scene Four

Mulder arrives back at the now-vacant beach. Sheriff Sitwell awaits with some forensic investigators.

“Looks like a shark attack,” Sitwell announces. “Some kid screamed about it, some woman saw it come near the shore. Big one, must be, but ’tis the season.”

Mulder points out that a shark couldn’t have gotten this far ashore, especially during low tide, unless it beached itself.

Sitwell doesn’t look pleased. She hands Mulder the visor. “Still collecting evidence, but we’re pretty sure it belonged to the vic.”

Mulder stares at the hat. It reads “Secluded Glen” across the top. “Only one type of person would wear this thing. This man was a tourist.”

Sitwell gives him a look. “Probably. Most people in town right now are. They come in from wherever, take over the beach, then leave when it gets cold.”

“Hmm…” Mulder gets a call. He picks up and…

“Mulder, it’s me. You know that dead tissue sample you collected? It wasn’t quite dead after all.” She describes how it inched away, then bit her.

“Sounds like homicidal Flubber,” Mulder remarks.

Ignoring that quip, Scully continues. “They don’t have the most sophisticated equipment here, but I got enough to run some DNA tests. This sample contains traces of squid, turtle, crab, jellyfish, several types of fish, and…you’re gonna love this part.”

“If you say ‘alien’ I might faint.”

“Human, Mulder. This thing has human DNA.”

Here Mulder pauses. “Well, if it ate Mark Starr then that must be his DNA.”

“One step ahead of you. I cross checked the DNA with Starr’s and got a negative. Then I checked it with the FBI database, and this time I got a hit. One Ronald Preston Botley. He’s some sort of crack genius biologist who’s done contract work with the government on and off for the last decade. He owns a private biological startup called BioArt, headquartered right here in Secluded Glen.”

Mulder nods. “How soon can you meet me at BioArt HQ?”

Act Three, Scene One

Mulder and Scully arrive at Ronald P. Botley’s company headquarters. When Scully sees what Mulder’s wearing, she can’t suppress a laugh.

“What? Pastels are in right now.”

As they walk, Mulder asks, “Do you have any sunflower seeds? I’ve been craving them all week and I still can’t find any.”

Scully checks her pockets, finds a package of peanuts. “It’s all I’ve got.”

Mulder eats some, still not looking too happy.

BioArt’s offices are somewhere between startup and hippie commune. Long-haired twenty-somethings (mostly men, mostly white) ride by on skateboards. Several kinds of beer are on tap (Mulder jokes about having one, and Scully agrees she might need one after this case). Classical music plays over hidden speakers. There’s a library, a garden, and a chef waiting to take salad orders. Also, no cubicles—totally open floor plan.

They’re greeted by Botley himself, founder and CEO of BioArt. Picture Mark Zuckerberg cosplaying as a young Jerry Garcia.

Botley shows them around the space, even points out a few biological breakthroughs they’ve made, such as a species of fish bioengineered to breath out of water.

Mulder hits Botley with some questions:

  • “How secure are the subjects in this facility?”
  • “Where were you born?”
  • “Want a peanut?”

To which Botley answers:

  • “Very. We’ve got state-of-the-art miniature environments, each with its own security team. Nothing can escape.”
  • “Right here in Secluded Glen. Why do you ask?”
  • “No thank you, Agent Mulder. I’m extremely allergic to peanuts.”

Mulder shrugs. “Being a local, you must not like the tourists, huh?”

“Oh certainly. Tourists, no matter where they’re from, they’re all the same. They swarm the beaches, they take over the shops, they fill up the ferries. Do you realize how much longer my morning commute takes in the summer because of them? If they could all just leave and never come back, well…I’d be a happy camper.”

“How frustrating,” Scully says flatly. “Last question. Can you explain how your DNA appeared at the scene of a murder last night?”

Botley appears baffled, asks for the exact date and time. Botley immediately asserts that he was in the building working late. He cites a few employees who can verify it, plus some custodial workers. He even suggests checking the security footage of the building for additional verification.

“Thanks for your time,” says Scully.

Scene Two

As Mulder and Scully exit BioArt, Mulder proposes his patented whacko theory.

“Just bear with me for a second here, Scully. What if this facility is the globster’s birthplace? And what if Ronald Botley is its father? They said themselves they tinker with genetics on all sorts of marine life. What if they created a conglomerate species?”

Scully, as always, acts as the voice of reason. “We still can’t be sure this is anything but a shark, Mulder. The witnesses at the first attack were all traumatized and scared and inebriated—not necessarily in that order—and at least one witness at the second attack reported seeing a shark.”

“Then how do you explain the glob that attacked you? How do you explain Flubber?”

Scully doesn’t have an answer for that one, so Mulder continues.

“I think Ronald Botley imbued this creature with his DNA, maybe as some sort of experiment. And not only did it get that—the creature also inherited his disdain for tourists.”

“Mulder. Are you seriously proposing that our prime suspect is a rolling ball of goo that washes up on random beaches just to eat…tourists?”

“Think about it, Scully. It attacked Mark Starr, the only non-local among a group of four other perfectly viable targets. And then it devoured another tourist when it could’ve attacked anyone else on that beach. It even went after you in the lab, probably because you’re not from around here.”

“Let’s say you’re right, Mulder. Let’s say this thing is only going after tourists. How do we catch it? It’s July in a beach town. Thousands of tourists are rolling in here every day for the rest of the summer.”

“Like any good fisherman, Scully. With bait.”

Act Four, Scene One

With night descending, Mulder and Scully head for the beach. Mulder theorizes that so long as a non-local is in or near the water, they have a fair shot of being attacked.

“But you’re immune,” Scully reasons. “You’re from Martha’s Vineyard.”

“Hey. Martha’s Vineyard is not Secluded Glen. Totally different.” He removes his flip flops and steps into the water. Scully does the same.

“Scully, I’m not gonna ask you to risk your life for this case.”

“You don’t have to.”

So they stand there in the water up to their knees, waiting. To pass the time, Mulder asks, “Did you go on vacations as a kid?”

“A handful,” Scully says. “But my father’s military career made everything feel like a vacation. We’d stay in places months at a time, sometimes a couple years. Inevitably, though, he’d get the call and we’d be off to elsewhere.”

“Sounds difficult.”

“Actually, it was kind of fun.” Scully peers out at the sunset beyond. “We still had our family. Still had each other. Visiting new places every few months wasn’t so bad. Not when I liked who I was traveling with.”

“And now you’re stuck with me.”

“Mulder,” she says, “you’re my favorite tourist.”

“I’m not…” Mulder gazes at the horizon. “Likewise.”

Something splashes in the water. Both agents draw their guns and…

It’s just a seal. Maybe the bait idea isn’t right. Just then, Mulder gets a call from Sheriff Sitwell. She just got a call from someone who claims a giant carcass washed up on the beach.

“Don’t let anyone near it,” says Mulder. “We’re on our way.”

Scene Two

The agents arrive at the new location. They find Sheriff Sitwell, local law enforcement, and a bunch of people they don’t know. They’re all gathered around a bulky carcass. Everyone’s covering their noses.

“Stay back,” Scully warns. “Federal agents. Everybody keep your distance.”

“Look,” somebody says, “it’s got faces on it.”

Indeed, we see the tourist dude’s face plastered on the side, along with Mark’s deteriorating face elsewhere.

“By show of hands,” Mulder says, facing the crowd. “Who here lives in Secluded Glen?”

All but one person raises their hands. Mulder points at the odd one out. “You. Go home. In fact, I need everybody off this beach, pronto.”

One tourist steps forward. “Sheriff, why do we have to listen to this guy? He’s wearing socks with sandals, for God’s sake.”

“I can explain that,” Mulder says, but the Sheriff steps in first.

“Everybody stand back,” Sitwell commands. “Go on. The beach is closed. Get moving.” She escorts the people off the beach.

When they’re all gone, Mulder turns back to the globster. “Now how do we arrest this thing?”

“We need a cleanup crew out here,” Scully says. “Maybe the New England Region EPA office can get someone.” She calls. And the Globster stirs.

“I don’t think it wants that, Scully.”

The faces on the Globster stretch and twist. The entity seems to grow. A tentacle wiggles out from beneath the slime, then another.

“Run!” Mulder roars.

Together, he and Scully take off at a sprint. And not a moment too soon, because the globster starts rolling. Fast.

“We need to keep it away from the water!” Mulder calls. “We can’t lose it again!”

They veer left, now going the opposite direction of the water. However, that now points them toward the parking lot, and beyond that, the town.

“But we can’t lead it toward more people!” Scully calls back. She hooks another left, and now they’re running parallel to the water again. “How do we stop it?”

“I don’t know!” Mulder tries shooting it a couple times, but shooting while running is tough work. Even when he does finally hit, the glob keeps rolling, kicking up sand in its wake.

A pair of figures appear in the dark ahead of them: two teenagers making out on the beach. Scully screams at them to get the hell out of there, but they just stare dumbly. She and Mulder make a wide circle around them, and fortunately, the globster rolls right past.

“Was that a bouldah?” the girl asks.

“Mustah been,” the guy agrees.

The agents run on, the globster still following. It’s now leaving bits of itself along the beach as it goes, tips of tentacles, fish scales, jelly goo. They come to an outcropping of rocks and dash past a sign that reads Please do not climb the rocks. They climb the rocks.

“Mulder,” Scully pants, “if this thing has Botley’s DNA…”

“Yeah.”

“…And it hates tourists as much as he does…”

“Right.”

“…Then maybe it shares other traits with him as well.”

“Like what?” The agents haul themselves atop the rocks, and not a moment too soon: one of the globster’s tentacles reaches for them and nearly grabs hold. They sprint down the other side, the glob still pursuing them.

“Immunodeficiencies. Mulder, Botley’s allergic to peanuts.”

Mulder checks his pockets as they run. “I threw them out. Couldn’t stand the texture!”

Scully scans the beach, then points. “There!” We discern a faint outline in the darkening distance: a box-shaped little building with a sign reading “The Snack Shack.” The agents run to it.

Scully gets there first, tries the handle. Locked. “Keep it busy!” She slams her shoulder against the door, trying desperately to break it down.

As the globster draws near, Mulder waves his arms. “Hey! Where’s the nearest gas station? You have any dinner recommendations? I’m here with my wife and our seven kids—what’s a good family-friendly excursion?”

The globster takes the bait. It now comes at Mulder, and he runs. “I’m cramping up, Scully. Hurry!”

Scully finally busts down the door of the Snack Shack. She flips on a flashlight, rummages through endless supplies of junk food. Twizzlers, Doritos, Lays Chips, Skittles, Milky Ways…

“Where the hell are the damn peanuts!?”

She trips over something bulky, curses. Then she gets the light on it.

A bag of peanuts. Industrial sized.

Outside, Mulder’s now running in circles, trying to keep the creature in the same vicinity as the Snack Shack. He’s slowing, though, and we see the creature gaining on him. Finally, it whips a tentacle out and trips him. Mulder tries to crawl away, but the tentacle snares him around the ankle and drags him across the sand.

“Scully! Scully!”

She emerges from the shack lugging a massive bag of peanuts. As the globster draws Mulder closer, Scully sprints forward and dumps the peanuts all over it.

The globster freezes. We watch as the peanuts sink into its gooey flesh. The tentacle goes limp, and for a moment, there’s silence—or would be, if not for the lapping of the waves and the heavy breathing of the agents.

“Is it—?”

The globster explodes.

Bits of dead marine matter rain down from above. When the sand settles, we find Scully and Mulder standing there, covered in fish guts. Mulder wipes some from his face.

“I’ll have the seafood stew,” he says.

Dissolve cut to…

Scene Three

It’s sunrise, and a cleanup crew has arrived—though not from the EPA. Their hazmat suits have BioArt logos on them. Sure enough, Ronald P. Botley is among them, too. He stands in the parking lot on the edge of the beach, leaning on his sports car, watching from afar.

Scully and Mulder approach him. They’re both still covered in fish guts.

“You can’t hide the truth,” Mulder says to Botley. “This was a test, wasn’t it? Is this some new biological weapon, or did you just want to see what would happen when you crammed too many organisms together?”

Botley pats Mulder on the shoulder, which makes a squelching sound. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Agent Mulder.”

“Two men are dead because of you.”

Botley shrugs. “I heard it was a lone shark.”

“There were witnesses,” says Scully. “Many of them, here and at the other attacks. You can’t suppress their stories.”

Botley steps into his car, starts the engine. “They’re tourists. Who cares what they have to say, anyway?”

He drives away, leaving Mulder and Scully alone in the parking lot.

Scene Four

We watch a car zoom down the road. The agents. Scully drives, and Mulder rides in the passenger seat.

“Mulder,” says Scully, “I know this vacation didn’t work out quite as you wanted. So I got you something.”

“You shouldn’t have.” Mulder opens the gift. Inside, he finds a package of sunflower seeds.

Scully smiles at him. “They just restocked.”

Mulder thanks her, then tears open the bag and offers her some. Scully declines, so Mulder cracks a seed and eats it.

“Scully?”

“Yeah Mulder?”

“Can we come back again next year?”

They pass a sign reading Fresh Lobster! And they keep on driving.

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories about cats.

Lessons From Cats

March 16, 2020 /

Let’s talk about cats.

Cats are great. I didn’t fully understand this fact until my wife and I got cats of our own (pictured above), but it’s true. They’re fun, sometimes strange little animals, but we can learn a lot from them.

Let’s discuss the greatness and majesty of our feline friends, and how we might better emulate them.

Cats Are Forgiving

Our cats love to play, though I’ll admit, animal playing is more like wrestling, or sometimes fisticuffs. They beat each other up, they take naps, and when they wake up, they’re friends again. Until the next fight.

Takeaway: If you’ve got a problem with someone, let them know, and then get over it. No cat-style wrestling necessary. The nap is optional, but comes highly recommended.

Cats Are Friendly (Sometimes)

I used to think cats didn’t like people, but that’s not really true. Sure, some cats are like that. But most of the time they’re selective; they have people that they establish a rapport with over time, and then you’re buddies for life. You also get bonus points toward cat friendship if you happen to be the one supplying them with food every morning.

Takeaway: We don’t need to be selective, necessarily, but we should surround ourselves with people that make us happy. And if those people give us food, that’s cool, too.

Cats Find Joy in the Little Things

Soley, our orange cat, has a favorite toy. It’s a stick with a fuzzy bee on the end of it. That’s it. She doesn’t have a laptop computer and she doesn’t really care for cars. Aside from that app designed for cats, she doesn’t give a fig about my phone.

I’m not trying to be all “discard your earthly possessions, man.” I’m just saying we humans can take note. Sometimes it feels like we need big flashy things to be happy, but we really don’t. There are simple things in life, and we should cherish them, too.

Takeaway: Find your stick with a fuzzy bee on the end of it, and enjoy.

Cats Are Funny

Luna, our grey and black cat, likes to climb on my shoulders and purr in my ear. Soley enjoys walking up to us, meowing once, and then walking away. I’m not sure if they mean to be funny, but they are.

For humans, the lesson is clear: Let’s not forget the importance of laughter! There’s no better link between people (and animals) than a good loud laugh.

Takeaway: Laughter is universal, no matter what language you speak.

Cats Have Their Own International Holiday

Yes, there is such a thing as International Cat Day. Clearly, this day was established not by humans, but by cats themselves. There’s no International Human Day, which makes me think felines are a step ahead.

Takeaway: If you want to be more like a cat, establish your own international holiday. It can’t be that hard, right?

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories about cats.

The Similarities of Playing Magic: The Gathering and Writing Fiction

October 7, 2019 /

I’m sure you’ve heard of writing. Question is, have you ever heard of Magic: The Gathering?

Magic is the world’s most popular trading card game (and also its first). Created in 1993 by doctoral student Richard Garfield, the game has millions of players all over the world. Players bring customized decks to the table and battle their cards against one or more opponents.

I like Magic. And I like writing fiction. And the more I do both, the more I realize how similar the two activities truly are. They both feature…

Endless Decision Making

When playing Magic or writing fiction, the player/author makes numerous decisions. In Magic, players start with seven cards in hand, then draw a random one from the top of their deck each turn. As a Magic player, every turn presents new decisions to be made, chiefly which of your cards you should play, and in what order. Your opponent’s decisions will further influence your own.

In writing, your only opponents are time, procrastination, and the occasional cup of coffee spilling on your keyboard. Still, there are plenty of decisions to make, probably even more than when playing Magic. For example: What are your characters going to look and act like? How does the setting influence them? What adjectives should you use to describe your protagonist? What’s your protagonist’s cat’s name (very important)?

Decisions, decisions. In both Magic and writing, they’re everywhere.

Contextual Factors

This is one of the coolest aspects of both Magic and writing: individual components change value based on what’s around them. Let’s start with Magic.

Let’s pretend that Magic cards are game pieces. The power level of pieces in most games are flat and predictable: a pawn advances at most two spaces at a time, and a queen moves as many spaces as she wants in any direction. In no game of chess has a pawn ever been more powerful than a queen.

Magic is a great game (the greatest, in my opinion) because its pieces vary in power level depending on what’s around them. For example, goblins appear frequently in Magic. In some decks, they might be annoying little attackers that don’t contribute very much to the game. However, in decks where they’re surrounded by more goblins, they might suddenly become a lot more powerful.

Everything’s contextual in writing, too! Take genre, for instance. If an author writes a novel about zombies, that author had better be aware of all the other zombie stories that have come before, after, and simultaneously. An author might write the best zombie story ever—yet if it comes out in the same year as ten other really bad zombie stories, it could easily lose value for the audience.

So Many Goddamn Rules

Magic and writing have a heck of a lot of rules. Let’s start with Magic.

In Magic, players strive to bend the rules in ways that are either competitively advantageous or just plain cool. No, this does not mean cheating (though that was certainly an issue in the game’s infancy). It means that players seek ways to combine cards in new ways for amazing results.

For example, consider the cost of cards. Magic is essentially a resource management game: players are allowed to play one land card per turn, and these land cards allow them to play their other cards. The game is designed so that, generally speaking, more powerful cards require more land cards to play. If players can find ways to play expensive cards sooner than usual, they can expect good results.

In writing, there are also tons of rules. Grammar, for instance, dictates how you express your ideas on the page. Then there are the rules of storytelling, which almost always come up when writing fiction.

Of course, as is the case with Magic, the fun part of writing is learning the rules, then breaking them. Fiction usually isn’t that interesting when it follows the template you expect it to follow; it’s often more compelling when the story diverges from established norms.

These are two of my all-time favorite subjects, so I’d better stop myself before I start rambling (if I haven’t already). If you like Magic, you might like writing fiction. If you like writing fiction, you might like Magic. Try ’em both!

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories about coffee.

What is the Claw Machine Doing with My Luck?

December 16, 2015 /

You’ve probably heard of the phrase “your luck has run out.” Sounds like something a Saturday morning cartoon hero might say to her greatest nemesis just before securing victory.

But sometimes I wonder if there’s really something to that phrase. Could luck be a finite resource, like coal or petroleum or Magic: The Gathering trading cards?

I don’t have any real evidence for this claim other than those days when you’re lucky enough to wake up on time despite your alarm malfunctioning, yet unlucky enough to hit a huge traffic jam and end up late for work anyway. In those moments, it feels like you were only given one token of luck, and you spent it on the alarm clock.

All this is why I fear the claw machine at arcades.

Let me explain. I have tremendous luck with the claw machine at arcades. The one where you press a red button on the end of a joystick to make a four-pronged silver claw descend into a sea of plush toys. It’s that machine that you quietly curse when it drops the toy you so carefully plucked, almost as if it was on purpose.

I’ve won the claw game three times in my life, which I consider the equivalent of hurling a basketball from the opposite side of the court with my eyes closed while balanced on a unicycle and draining it. And I don’t consider this bragging because, like hurling a basketball with eyes closed while balanced on a unicycle and draining it, the claw machine has nothing to do with skill. It’s just sheer dumb luck.

(By the way, what is dumb luck? If there’s such a thing as dumb luck, does that mean there’s also such a thing as smart luck, or straight-Bs-but-tries-really-hard luck?)

Anyway, I wonder if I’m wasting all my luck, dumb or otherwise, on the claw machine. What if I never played the claw machine, never won that dalmatian with the fireman helmet or the mini Chicago Bulls basketball or the orca whale, and instead put that luck toward something that’s actually useful, like a lottery ticket?

And that’s maybe the worst part of luck. You can’t know when you’re using it, or how much you’re using, or whether or not it’s about to run out.

Back to that “your luck has run out” phrase. It’s usually followed by some misfortune directed at one person or another, like death or something. Which is funny, because I don’t think dying is unlucky. You wouldn’t have to be lucky to win the lottery if everybody won the lottery, right?

Then again, could luck just be an explanation for the unexplainable? I mean, if you’re unfortunate enough to find yourself in class on the day you didn’t do the reading, and then, out of the entire lecture hall of a hundred or so students, your professor chooses you to answer her question, how would you explain that.

Just bad luck, I guess.

Likewise, if you win the lottery, beating out all the thousands of other entrants whose numbers might be a digit or two away from yours, how can you explain that?

Must be good luck (or smart luck?).

So do I really even believe in this thing called luck? I guess not. It probably isn’t this intangible that we all use every day, and that can run out at any moment. It’s more likely that it’s just the word we use to describe the unlikely, or the nearly impossible. Really, luck is probably nothing more than a word, right?

Still, just to be safe, maybe I’ll stay away from the claw machines.

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