Thumbscribes Story Number Two.

[This is the second of two stories created for Significant Objects by participants in Thumbscribes, a collaborative-writing platform. Thumbscribes is auctioning this object here, and will give proceeds to a charity or nonprofit of its choosing.]

I had a friend who once gifted a SPAM jigsaw puzzle. It’s the kind of gift that lets a person know how you feel. It says, “You’re a compressed mystery meat conundrum and I don’t mind getting my hands dirty.” My gifts rarely speak so candidly.

My mother doesn’t eat sweets anymore. The doctors told her they were killing her. It used to always be so easy to buy her presents. Cakes, pies, cupcakes. I’d just go to the nearest bakery and choose the most delicious-looking thing. Now when I see her for holidays, we share a silence of sweets. And so, the absence of sweetness in my gifts pained me. It threatened to sour our family time, for the memory of sweetness is the sweetest of all things, until custom and overuse curdles it. And then I found this. A void encased in a prison of pastry: a metaphor for life. A savory joke.

At first glance, memories of Katie’s plum-colored face, wheezing, struggling for air as she convulsed on the floor with her hands on her throat, filled my mind. Diabetic shock: overbearing sweetness can be so bitterly destructive at times. After her attack she would often remind me that stressed spelled backwards is desserts. In fact, she went so far as to divide the whole world into people who like desserts, and Maoists. After a few glasses of wine she would sometimes shout with righteous indignation, “Let them eat cake.” Being in the people-who-liked-sweets category was inherently better than being in the Maoists’ camp. That said, I was still a little hesitant about how she would respond to my most recent purchase.

As I was about to give her the present, the New Yorkers arrived like a bumper commercial during the cliffhanger of my gift-giving moment. The dogs raced to the door as my mother rushed gushing to meet my brother and his girlfriend. “Baby Cakes, all the way from the East Village,” Serena exclaimed. “Baby Cakes indeed,” I thought gleefully as my mother reluctantly refused the sugar-coated gift. Keith insisted she try one, saying the cakes were sugar-free and made with Agave. I looked up startled as I watched my mother slowly bite into the forbidden; that of which we had for so long not spoken. I rushed over, chastising my brother for his ignorance. “Mom can’t eat ANY sweets. It makes no difference if it’s extracted from cactus or corn.” She seemed fine, although visibly unhappy that I’d robbed her of her pleasure. That was when I decided not to give her the pie-shaped container.

Written collaboratively by Thumbscribes users Alex Rendon, Carly, Chris, Jacqueline, lickicon, and Rafael. For a breakdown, view the story on Thumbscribes, and click “view details.”

Thumbscribes Story Number One.

[This is the first of two stories created for Significant Objects by participants in Thumbscribes, a collaborative-writing platform. Thumbscribes is auctioning this object here, and will give proceeds to a charity or nonprofit of its choosing.]

I was born on 11/11 at 11:11 and there is nothing extraordinary about my life. We live in an ordered universe where patterns and co-incidences are bound to arise. The Chinese egg was different. I first saw it at my psychoanalyst’s office above The Ear Inn. It was planted by him, of course. A strict Freudian, he believes that there are no accidents, and when he can, he makes sure of it. Placed on the bookshelf just over his right shoulder, in my eyeline. I struggled not to laugh. A maternal figure, on an egg, of all things. Obvious, even for him. His polished scalp comically mirrored the shape of the object. I began to wonder of the similarities between the human brain and an egg, specifically of the hidden being inside one’s mind, yet to form, but when it does — turns into an animal independent of the body. Then it hit me.

Square across my face. In the throes of such a metaphysical quandary, I didn’t see that egg coming. “You must free yourself of all that Oedipal guilt,” said Dr. Ljunggren in his thick Swedish accent as the oval object bounced off my cheek. My child’s failure-to-thrive syndrome was no fault of mine. I stood up, albeit a little shaken, walked over to where the ornament had landed and picked it up. The Doctor was prone to have these dramatic outbursts and I was becoming well-versed. I replaced the offending object and returned to the chaise lounge and reclined. My gaze was drawn back to the ceramic egg while I proceeded to answer Ljunggren’s questions about my week, developing relationships, occasional instances of distress and other nuances. I traced the egg’s decorative embellishments, following golden outlines across its painted surface while I spoke. Ljunggren, the unrivaled master of the uncanny, was getting increasingly agitated that I had not reacted to or acknowledged the egg incident. I was wrong to have confided in him about my reoccurring deja vu with the egg. He was part of the collusion. I felt uncomfortably strange and oddly comforted.

“It’s just that the Geisha looks so well fed Doc,” I said with a quiver in my voice, as I gawked at her pasty white complexion. Ljunggren raised his right eyebrow and stated: “And brimming with innocence and purity,” as he stroked his pointy goatee. I began to feel a slight swell occurring on my face. Ljunggren and the elephant in the room were suddenly completely transparent. He needed my neurosis about the egg as much as he needed a reason to get up in the morning. “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” I said, walking on egg shells out the room. “And an egg is just an egg,” Ljunggren wisecracked.

Written collaboratively by Thumbscribes users : Alex Rendon, Chris, Goldcat, Jacqueline, lickicon, and Rafael. For a breakdown, view the story on Thumbscribes, and click “view details.”

Significant Objects at Litquake: 5 of 5

[The auction for this Significant Object, with story by Beth Lisick, has ended. Original price: 99 cents. Final price: $62.95. Proceeds of this auction have been donated to Root Division, host of the first-ever Significant Objects live event, in connection with Litquake in San Francisco.]

My father was more or less a garden variety drunk. He got neither mean nor gloomy when he’d had a lot of wine, just generally loose followed by a major case of the sleepies. When he and Mom first met, during a year abroad at the Sorbonne in the early ‘70s, she found his habit of heavy drinking adorable. She liked the way he was often confused and befuddled. Like Mr. Magoo, she said. Like a guy who steps out of the way of a falling piano because he just noticed a cigarette butt in a flower pot. It was pretty sweet. But who falls in love in Paris in the ‘70s and isn’t in some way completely amazing?

The culture of hazing at the Sorbonne was legendary, especially toward the foreign exchange students. My mother had already been hung upside down by her ankles from a statue of Philippe Pinel, the father of modern psychiatry, while wearing a pink trapeze dress no less, so she knew she was probably safe for the rest of the semester. My dad, however, hadn’t gotten his yet. Only minor things here and there, like getting locked out of his dorm all night or that thing people do with the cellophane on the toilet. But he was starting to think maybe this was his lot. He would rack up a bunch of petit harcelement throughout the year instead of being the victim of one major prank like everybody else. But it turns out this was not the case.

He and Mom weren’t even together yet, she was actually dating someone else, but she was put in charge of making sure his wine glass was never empty that night. Then, when he was good and drunk, she finished him off with one of her killer blowjobs. It’s weird because my family isn’t that open about sex at all, but my mom’s BJ prowess is one of those things we’ve always known about. Like the fact that she’s half Polish or is scared of spiders. It was always just like, Mom loves board games, makes a mean loaf of pumpernickel, and can suck a cock like a champ.

With Dad out cold, they carried him down to the basement of the lab where they kept all the animals. This is gross, but they opened up a horse’s stomach, folded Dad’s limp little limbs into his chest, heaved him into the cavity, and sewed him up inside with a heavy twine. And then everybody stayed there all night, sleeping intermittently, waiting for him to come to. Finally, just after dawn, they heard his muffled screaming and let him out.

We never heard about this until their 32^nd anniversary, a few years before Dad died. Mom had gone to one of those places at the mall called Color Me Mine! where you can paint a ceramic coffee cup or a plate for your loved one, and she made this bust for him. When Dad opened it up, he laughed so hard that no sound was coming out. Then he started crying for awhile, with tears and a sort of choking noise, but soon he went back to laughing again. Then we all sat down for cake and ice cream at the kitchen table and they told us this story about their early courtship.

———

COME TO OUR EVENT: October 9th, from 6-7 p.m.: An Evening of Remarkable Stories about Unremarkable Things featuring Rob Baedeker, Chris Colin, Miranda Mellis, Beth Lisick, and Katie Wiliams. PLUS: the first-ever Object Slam. Map to Venue. Confirm your attendance on Facebook!

Significant Objects X Litquake: No. 3 of 5

[The auction for this Significant Object, with story by Chris Colin, has ended. Original price: $1. Final price: $15.50. Proceeds of this auction have been donated to Root Division, host of the first-ever Significant Objects live event, in connection with Litquake in San Francisco.]

Just because your employer happens to be a billionaire doesn’t mean you aren’t still a regular person, who might enjoy talking about his commute. Or the totally interesting things Rodney down the hall reports back from the food blogs he reads all day, every day. Or how these souvenir company mugs under your desk might sometimes get in the way of you stretching your legs, but mostly they remind you of the five great years you’ve spent here, with a salary that hasn’t changed, which is a totally handy fact at tax time.

But people only want to hear about the billionaire stuff. I’m happy to get it out of the way up front:

Yes, Obama calls on his birthday.

No, no security lines when he flies on his private jet.

Yes, he once brought a bunch of those black rhinos to his private island, but only once.

No, it’s not like that Harper’s thing you read, where it’s not worth his time to bend down and pick up a hundred dollar bill on the sidewalk. Billionaires don’t really use the sidewalk much in the first place.

Yes, if you have enough money, you can have Beyoncé pop out of a cake on your birthday if you want, with Justin Bieber on her shoulders, singing in a Scottish accent about gerbils with alopecia, if that’s your particular interest. You could have them do it every day. Billionaires aren’t like millionaires, even though it rhymes. Try out one of those compound interest calculators online — it’s pretty much impossible for billionaires to run out of money.

But still, I wonder if their employees should really Google fava crostini all day? Years ago, before either of us worked here, Rodney was my college roommate. He had deep-set, scheming eyes, like a possum. I mean that in a totally good way. When we ran into each other years later, he said he liked my shoes, and asked if I’d help him get a job like me at the billionaire’s company. On his first day he wore sunglasses indoors and informed us no offense but he wasn’t made to be a peon — he was going to convince our employer to open a 2,000-acre theme park dedicated to the two beloved American institutions, baseball and grandparents. Okay! I said. There’s no such thing as a bad idea, my mother always told me.

She was right! The week Double Awesome World eclipsed Disneyland, Rodney made VP, and was sent to Dubai for two weeks to celebrate. The camel’s milk chocolate was amazing, I hear. Was there an equally generous billionaire-ish thank-you for the person who got Rodney hired in the first place? Forty Double Awesome World souvenir mugs showed up on my desk just before he got back. People ask how I managed to accidentally break most of them that first night. That’s not the point, though. The point is I have one left, and if I’m totally honest, I don’t see myself using it.

———

COME TO OUR EVENT: October 9th, from 6-7 p.m.: An Evening of Remarkable Stories about Unremarkable Things featuring Rob Baedeker, Chris Colin, Miranda Mellis, Beth Lisick, and Katie Wiliams. PLUS: the first-ever Object Slam. Map to Venue. Confirm your attendance on Facebook!

Object No. 5 of 5: Epistolary Week

[The auction for this Significant Object, with story by Joe Meno, has ended. Original price: 50 cents. Final  price: $48.50. This is part of a series of five epistolary stories guest-curated by Ben Greenman. Proceeds from this auction will go to One Story.]

(A note found in grandfather’s chest of drawers.)

Dear Small Vessel,

“The Brief War of 1851: a compleat (sic) novel in miniature”

Prologue: On the green-twigged outskirts of Macon, Georgia, one Mister Bradley Granger meets the fair, emerald-eyed Miss Melissa Stuart at a cotillion when she perchances to drop a white handkerchief. Courtesies are exchanged. Miss Stuart’s dance card, as it turns out, is full. But under a cowardly moon, said handkerchief is pressed into Mister Granger’s hand as a token of mutual admiration. Bradley Granger, an orphan, nearly eighteen, holds the perfumed handkerchief to his face, repeating the young girl’s name on his long walk home, issuing romantic vows to cloudless stars.

Chapter One: The very next day, the entire city of Macon, Georgia declares itself a sovereign nation, some ten years before the War Between the States (1861-65), through a poorly-worded telegraph sent to President Zachary Taylor’s attention.

Chapter Two: Bradley Granger is pressed into military service. Because of his social standing and his dead father’s renowned fearlessness during the War of 1812, he is appointed as a junior grade lieutenant.

Chapter Three: Bradley Granger kisses Melissa Stuart beneath a gum tree and declares his intentions to return to her after the war is finished. Once he rides off, all she can remember is the smell of cordite and smoke.

Chapter Four: Soon after, Melissa Stuart begins her course of schooling at Wesleyan College against her parents’ wishes, as it is the first college of its kind to grant degrees to women. Her studies include field dressing a head wound and how to tie a proper tourniquet.

Chapter Five: Supplies in the city become drastically limited: and so it is decided that everything will continue to be produced but in complete miniature. Canons, horse carriages, parasols, candlesticks, pistols, hats, spectacles, rain barrels, vases, all of it the same but one tenth the actual size. This does not bode well for a poorly-armed Macon militia.

Chapter Six: During his first raid against the Federalists, Bradley’s tiny rifle misfires, and he loses the use of his left eye. His is indefatigable however and, on horseback, he leads his men to burn a Federal encampment to the ground, using very small torches. Miss Melissa Stuart writes miniature love letter after miniature love letter to her beloved, asking him to please be safe. Bradley keeps this small letters in the cuff of his left sleeve.

Chapter Seven: Bradley is shot through the shoulder by a Federal soldier riding a dun-colored roan. He falls into the Macon Creek. Bradley’s horse, Up-and-away, finds him downstream. In his agony, Bradley takes the reins, and is dragged to a nearby cave where he hopes to recover.

Chapter Eight: Miss Melissa Stuart’s miniature letters are found amongst the trenches of the dead Maconite soldiers. Who can assume anything but the worst in moments such as this?

Chapter Nine: Thinking her beloved is dead, Miss Melissa Stuart accepts neighbor John Handley’s marriage proposal. Bradley returns to town, leaning on a crutch made of rough-hewn branches. A duel is fought between Bradley and John, their weapons rapiers one tenth the normal size. Parry. Riposte. John Handley is dead. Overcome by his feelings of guilt, Bradley retreats to the woods, where he attempts suicide, but the miniature pistol he holds to his head only causes minor harm to his right ear.

Chapter Ten: The city of Macon burns to the ground and soon after issues its surrender.

Epilogue: Bradley and Melissa are reunited and ride off to the north astride a very small horse.

No. 2 of 5: Epistolary Week

[The auction for this Significant Object, with story by James Hannaham, has ended. Original price: $2. Final price: $28.50. This is part of a series of five epistolary stories guest-curated by Ben Greenman. Proceeds from this auction will go to One Story.]

June 6, 2010

Mr. R.S. Pennyback
Shady Acres Estate
Houndsville, AL 35808

Dear Mr. Pennyback:

It has recently come to my attention that certain practices of your establishment, hereafter known as “Shady Acres,” have affected my client, whom you know as Bethuna, in an extremely negative fashion. We have therefore decided to take legal action against “Shady Acres” on multiple charges, including fraud, discrimination in hiring, forced labor, and sexual assault. Ms. Bethuna is seeking damages, including retroactive wages owed as well as compensation for psychological and physical distress caused by “Shady Acres,” its associates, and their relations.

In a sworn deposition which she gave to me on May 19-21, 2010, Bethuna stated that her tenure with “Shady Acres” began at her birth, on September 14, 1855. Yourself and the previous proprietors of “Shady Acres” (see Appendix A) required my client to operate as a culinary, housekeeping, gardening, landscaping, and childcare professional. During the ensuing one hundred and fifty-five (155) years, my client prepared an estimated 168,987 meals, including 121 Christmas and 107 Thanksgiving dinners, made 15 beds a total of 56,206 times, dusted 18 rooms over the course of her life, and nursed a total of 54 children, 33 of whom were not her own—including yourself—and the balance of whom were the issue of herself and various proprietors and associates of “Shady Acres.”

While initially these practices were not punishable by law in the state of Alabama, my client contends that the owners of “Shady Acres” conspired to conceal the change in her legal status indefinitely, thereby preventing her from discovering and curtailing the criminal activity of “Shady Acres” to the extent that this required keeping her from acquiring any skill in the reading and writing of the English language, and prohibiting contact with any persons, organizations, news outlets, or other publications which may have informed her of the change in her legal status.

My client also maintains that during her tenure at “Shady Acres,” she suffered frequent and unrelenting physical and sexual abuse, culminating in the removal of a circular portion of her lower abdomen, through which the owners of “Shady Acres” then threaded a string attached to a piece of paper intended to advertise a sum of money for which her services would be rendered to similar local organizations at no compensation to herself. The whereabouts of, and/or the purpose to which the removed cylinder was put by “Shady Acres” were not divulged to my client. In addition to back wages, the monetary equivalent of benefits, legal fees, and other damages, my client’s lawsuit also requires that the abdominal subdivision in question be returned to Ms. Bethuna’s possession and repaired to the extent that medical science may accomplish such a reparation.

Sincerely,

Ms. Minerva Lee Battle, Esq.

The winner of this auction will also receive James Hannaham's story, pictured, mailed by the author.

]]> http://significantobjects.com/2010/06/15/napkin-ring-james-hannaham-story/feed/ 0 http://significantobjects.com/2010/04/30/corked-bottle-ben-greenman-story/ http://significantobjects.com/2010/04/30/corked-bottle-ben-greenman-story/#comments Fri, 30 Apr 2010 13:38:16 +0000 Ben Greenman http://significantobjects.com/?p=6415 Continue reading →]]>

No. 50 of 50 — Significant Objects v3

[The auction for this Significant Object, with story by Ben Greenman, has ended. Original price: 33 cents. Final price: $59.50. This is the last of three stories in our Identical Objects series. Proceeds from this auction go to Girls Write Now.]

“Dennis, Nell, Edna, Leon, Nedra, Anita, Rolf, Nora, Alice, Carol, Leo, Jane, Reed, Dena, Dale, Basil, Rae, Penny, Lana, Dave, Denny, Lena, Ida, Bernadette, Ben, Ray, Lila, Nina, Jo, Ira, Mara, Sara, Mario, Jan, Ina, Lily, Arne, Bette, Dan, Reba, Diane, Lynn, Ed, Eva, Dana, Lynne, Pearl, Isabel, Ada, Ned, Dee, Rena, Joel, Lora, Cecil, Aaron, Flora, Tina, Arden, Noel, and Ellen sinned” (the longest known name-based palindrome)

Dennis shot a man dead in Key West.
Nell told Ada to have sex with Dennis’s brother, Dan, in exchange for drugs.
Edna lied.
Leon lied.
Nedra lied.
Anita cheated.
Rolf was greedy.
Nora was greedy.
Alice was greedy.
Carol was wrathful.
Leo lied and was slothful.
Jane wore a new dress on a date with Dennis and then returned it.
Reed took naked photographs of young boys and sold them to a pawnbroker in Hialeah.
Dena worked for the pawnbroker but looked the other way.
Dale cheated on his wife.
Basil was slothful.
Rae sold used mattresses as new.
Penny should have picked Dennis up at the Miami airport, but couldn’t get out of bed.
Lana did coke and had a threesome with Dennis before he left St. Louis.
Dave suffered from spiritual torpor.
Denny suffered from spiritual torpor.
Lena suffered from spiritual torpor.
Ida ate too much.
Bernadette ate too much.
Ben hit and killed a dog while driving with his friend Ned and drove off.
Ray did a shoddy job inspecting rides at an amusement park; a ride collapsed, killing three.
Lila stole.
Nina stole.
Jo stole.
Ira falsified a work injury and sued for damages.
Mara ate too much.
Sara was prideful.
Mario was prideful.
Jan was prideful.
Ina lied.
Lily lusted after her cousin.
Arne, Lily’s cousin, lusted after her.
Bette, Lily’s mother, boasted about her daughter’s grades but was blind to the situation with Arne.
Dan, Lily’s father, left her for a much younger woman.
Reba lived in Key West; Dan came to live with her and open a restaurant; they dealt drugs out of the back.
Diane fell in love with Dan and felt despair.
Lynn fell in love with Dan and felt wrath.
Ed envied Dan.
Eva stole.
Dana was greedy.
Lynne was enraged that Dan could not tell the difference between her and Lynn.
Pearl was slothful.
Isabel, who was in love with Dan but despaired ever having him, wrote down her desires on a piece of paper, rolled it up, pushed it into a miniature souvenir bottle, and dropped the bottle on the beach behind the restaurant.
Ada coaxed Dan out onto the beach one night with the promise of sex.
Ned hit Dan with his car; when he heard the thump, he thought of the dog he and Ben had hit and just kept on going.
Dee, Ned’s passenger, felt despair.
Rena, who witnessed the accident, felt despair.
Joel, a cop, heard about the accident from Rena; he was sleeping with her while his wife was dying in the hospital.
Lora, Rena’s sister, was in the threesome with Dennis in St. Louis, and she told him that Dan was dead.
Cecil bought pictures of boys from the pawnbroker.
Aaron lied.
Flora was vainglorious.
Tina, also vainglorious, came upon Isabel’s bottle, pocketed it.
Arden, Tina’s lover, accepted the bottle as a token of Tina’s affection.
Noel, Arden’s lover, rubbed cocaine on her gums during sex with Dennis and casually mentioned that if someone killed her brother, she’d take revenge.
Ellen was having sex with Ned when Dennis burst into the room and squeezed off two shots.

No. 47 of 50 — Significant Objects v3

[The bidding on this object, with story by Peter Rock, has ended. Original price: $3.00. Final price: $10.50. Proceeds from this auction go to Girls Write Now.]

What Amanda notices most about Mr. Neidorf is not his muddy boots. Not his scalp, glossy through his thinning hair, not the way his beard grows up high on his cheeks — not a beard, exactly, but a darkness beneath his skin that underlines his eyes. The scraping way he walks, she notices, and the humming under his breath, and the fact that he is shorter than she is, yes, but these are not what she notices most. It is his hands. How he holds them cupped inward, always, fingers bent as if he is holding something that he can never put down, that taps on everything he tries to touch.

If he looks at her, there is not much to notice. A girl on her way to the office, in tights and a skirt, a girl whose short, dark hair is parted on the left. A girl who lives alone, who lives with only her dog.

It is her dog, Ranger, who senses the words before they arrive. Ranger leaps to his white chair, eyes staring and ears perked, and in a moment the words rise through the apartment’s floor: My veins are like wires all wrapped around inside the meat of my body and I can hear your radio in my heart. And a tapping on walls, on the ceiling, as if Mr. Neidorf is accentuating his words, making sure he has Amanda’s attention. I’ll throw you down in my dirty bathtub, your front teeth chipped. I’ll fill your ears without turning on a faucet.

Amanda sees him in the elevator, neck bent, staring at the numbers above the door. The top of his head glints. She knows his apartment number, reads his name on the mailbox in the lobby. She doesn’t have to ask anyone about him. She just has to listen.

The tape recorder is always ready. Ranger’s tail hits the stand and the microphone spins a slow circle; it sweeps the air for the thickening that means the words are about to start again:

I’ll wipe your ass on the walls, I’ll burn off all the hair on your body, I’ll turn you to a blind porcupine and birds will make nests out of that hair and then sing a song about your cracks and sweet crannies.

She records it all. On the quiet nights she listens to Mr. Neidorf through her headphones, turned up high: Wheelbarrow? I’ll put things in you — Tap, tap, tap — wheelbarrow you all around. I’ll make you lick my sweet outlets. She lies on her bed in her underwear and her running shoes, ready and shivering, his words in her head. Perhaps it is not his hands she notices most, yet she feels him holding her, his fingers curve around. Eyes closed, she sees the tiny porcelain doll he’s made in her likeness, and one of Ranger, too; he holds them, white, one in each hand, tapping and tapping, calling her.

She will go. She’ll pour his tea, unlace his boots, do all he cannot do while his hands are so occupied. And once she has taken care of these small needs, she will attend to the larger ones. Shivering, she imagines the cold, smooth touch of porcelain on her skin, all the sweet things she will let him do to her.

Object No. 45 of 50 — Significant Objects v3

[The auction for this Significant Object, with story by Heidi Julavits, has ended. Original price: $1.00. Final price: $102.50. This is part five of a five-story teamup with the literary magazine The Believer. Proceeds from this auction go to Girls Write Now.]

According to my wife I am a willful misunderstander, but regarding this tendency of mine I understand her feelings too well.

The daughter of dour pragmatists who prefaced many a conversation with the phrase, “In the wake of Rorty,” my wife initially mistook me as a source of peculiar brightness. One day, however, I noticed that my wife, after weeks of inexplicable bleeding, had tired of me. I took her to see a specialist who diagnosed her with a melancholy cervix — his beautiful Chilean way (the specialist was Chilean) of conveying to us that we would have no children.

I’m sorry your cervix is melancholy, I told her, rubbing her shoulders insincerely as she wept, because I had never wanted to have children with her. But in fact, she claimed, the specialist had told her that she was dying, an interpretation of recent events that I frankly disbelieved.

Soon she’d stopped eating (the smell of food, she claimed, made her ill), as if to prove that she was right and I wrong regarding certain things. So I started to carve, in our garage, from pieces of oak left by the former owner, a so-called neoclassical orthodontist who whittled, in his spare time, the many sets of wooden teeth he’d left behind on crooked shelves, her favorite fruit. I carved whole pears and whole oranges, but found that I hated to see, at the end of a breakfast, say, my plate empty and hers full. I returned to the workshop and carved wood into the shape of already-eaten food; halfway through our meals I would exchange the uneaten food for the already-eaten food, and I would congratulate her on her excellent appetite, and this would make her cry at how well I understood her.

But one afternoon, as I was exchanging an uneaten apple for an already-eaten apple, she took the already-eaten apple off her plate and threw it into the yard.

I retrieved the already-eaten apple.

“You are a tiresome fool,” she said, and threw the already-eaten apple into the yard.

I fetched and she threw, we carried on like this (the exercise, I could see, did her good) until finally I left the already-eaten apple in the yard, because one must relent to the livid pessimism of a so-called dying loved one; to do otherwise, or so I believe she believed, as she lay face-down in the soft grass, was to deny her this last skeptical foothold on life.

Soon it was fall, and then winter. In spring, a tree began to sprout, not far from the place where my wife had thrown the already-eaten apple. I desired to drag her out to the yard and say to her, lovingly of course, “who is the fool now? Who, now, is the fool?” Unfortunately come spring my wife was dead. Alive she would have scoffed at the idea of a tree sprouted from a wooden apple, because she had not yet won the battle we were apparently fighting to the death. But I knew that now she could allow herself to see things from my perspective, that dead trees beget live ones, and wooden apple cores, if you hold them to your ear like a shell, contain the reassuring echo of a human voice that does not believe in you.

Object No. 38 of 50 — Significant Objects v3

[The auction for this object, with story by Scott Boylston, has ended. Original price: $1.99. Final price: $9.50. Significant Objects will donate proceeds from this auction to Girls Write Now.]

It’s not nearly as kinky as it sounds. I mean, jokes are meant to tweak reality a little, after all, right? Anyone might have done the same thing just for kicks, if they’d only open themselves up to the creative moment. And, really, if they can’t, then they’re drips, and they can go piss off, plain and simple.

I can’t remember where my wife got it: Maybe from her brood in Dallas, or maybe something one of her dad’s renters left behind.  Frankly, it’s not the kind of thing I keep in long-term memory.

So, there it was, in the bedroom—in the frickin’ bedroom, of all places. I hadn’t seen it in so long I had forgotten we even had it; why she insisted in keeping it all these years; and even how it got that godforsaken crack on the edge. I also didn’t give it much thought as to why it was on the bedstead; maybe Rosa left it out while cleaning, maybe my wife re-discovered its lost magic—whatever that had been—and was going to use it for her incense or some such thing.  What I’m saying is, who the hell knows how these things happen.

So, out of the shower I strut. I throw the towel aside to get her Texas giggle going, and she can see right away I’m open for business. Microsoft, it’s not…in either sense of the word, if you know what I mean. She does her usual feint, “My Word, Bill…”  Then I see the canister glinting in the dim light, and think, yeah, why not? What a trip, right? A shining knight; a glinting castle on the hill; a totem of exquisite starlight (yeah, I can be poetic).

I say to her, “You wanna see some innovative hardware?” and I flip one of the tops off. Then I give the canister a good ol’ Tom Cruise Cocktail swirl and bring it down right onto Sir William.

My instincts have made me what I am, so I don’t ever question them. What’s done is done, and move on from there. But curse that frickin’ crack. Curse that tiny, frickin’ nick on the edge. Who could’ve ever guessed it could do so much damage? And that was nothing compared to when I pulled it off. I don’t give a flying twig what it ever meant to my wife. I threw the frickin’ thing out myself just as soon as Melinda stopped the bleeding, and I managed to get off the floor.

Object No. 32 of 50 — Significant Objects v3

[The auction for this object, with story by Ron Currie Jr., has ended. Original price: donated. Final price: $41.00. Significant Objects will donate the proceeds from this auction to Girls Write Now. This object was part of a collection curated for Significant Objects by Paola Antonelli; the story was co-published on Core77.com.]

They were a silly thing to get so obsessive about, in retrospect. What can I say? I was in my early twenties, so I imagined my fixation on Homies would come off as a moderately hip eccentricity. Like, “He’s cool enough not to take himself too seriously.” Or, “He’s self-possessed enough to not care if anyone thinks that collecting arguably racist figurines is just, well, you know, kind of gay.” Something like that.

And that was exactly how she saw it, at least when we’d first met and were both perfect, before all the craziness that came not too much later. I had this tic — couldn’t leave the grocery store without popping two quarters into the Homies vending machine and turning the dial. Even had a little ritual I performed, like a muted rain dance, to ensure I didn’t get a duplicate. Early on, she found all this hilarious and endearing.

There were all kinds of ways she tried to brand me, but here’s the worst: she took my two favorite Homies, Shady and Wolfe, the first two I’d ever bought, and stuck them to the dashboard of HER car with Gorilla Glue. Without asking. We’d been together all of three months. She showed me what she’d done and she smiled and put an arm around my neck and said, “Don’t they go great with Dashboard Jesus?”

It was the first indication that I was in trouble. There were others to follow. Three years’ worth.

She was honest, though, I’ll give her that. She told me about both times she slept with other guys, for instance. The first one, I let it go. Maybe she was right, maybe I was withdrawn and hadn’t been holding up my end of the bargain. She’d had a rough go of things, too, really rough. They ate out of dumpsters when she was a kid. That stuff figured into my thinking. The second time I wasn’t interested in making excuses for her.

While she packed her shit I went downstairs and put my elbow through her driver’s side window and tried to unstick Shady and Wolfe, with no luck. I knew she’d be a while so I went to my buddy Jazz’s place and asked to borrow his jigsaw.

Jazz told me later, while griping about the two broken saw blades, that all I’d needed to do was pour some kerosene on the glue and it would break down. I tried this, and lo and behold. Shady and Wolfe made their way into storage, and eventually into the garbage, but that piece of dashboard went in a 4×6 picture frame. No, seriously. It’s right over there, take a look. That’s genuine Mazda 323 hide, my friend, and I earned every square centimeter.

Object No. 31 of 50 — Significant Objects v3.

[The auction for this object, with story by Helen DeWitt, has ended. Original price: donated. Final price: $20.50. Significant Objects will donate the proceeds from this auction to Girls Write Now. This object was part of a collection curated for Significant Objects by Paola Antonelli; the story was co-published on Core77.com.]

I need an agent to deal with my agent. This was the thought. Bill was to be the buffer: Jonathan is a pathological liar, I am a pathological truth-teller, and Bill was to be the man-in-the-middle, the go-between, the Janus — something intermediary, anyhoo. That’s what middlemen are for. One day Bill resigned.

On a market stall I happened to see, oh how lovely! a SARS mask within a plastic envelope. You needed protection yourself, Bill; you needed your very own personal plastic envelope. And I didn’t know. And more to the purpose, because life must go on, here was a chance to practice my Japanese! The label included both English text and an enchanting title for the object incorporating both hiragana and katakana: よyo こko はha マma スsu クku. I didn’t know that masuku was Japanese for mask, Bill, did you?

Object No. 30 of 50 — Significant Objects v3

[The auction for this object, with story by Sari Cunningham, has ended. Original price: 25 cents. Final price: $30.00. Significant Objects will donate the proceeds from this auction to Girls Write Now.]

Two days after his bypass surgery she walked in on the nurse adjusting his catheter and dispensing dietary advice. “No more omelets,” and then a playful laugh, cut short by her entrance. She studied the nurse. Asian. Young. A plain oval face, opaque except for a birthmark streaking the right cheek like chicken shit. The name tag read ‘Tamako’ — ‘Precious child.’ Tamago, she thought, means egg in Japanese. The difference of a letter. A bird outside the window cried out three times. Something cracked inside her. A cuckoo, she reflected, lays its eggs in another bird’s nest. And then, bitterly, and they say the Japanese have a sense of honor.

He had a penchant for making extravagant 10-egg omelets for his lovers, which explained why his cholesterol had reached so high a level. He liked to experiment with different flavors, depending on the tastes of his paramours. That’s how, two years ago, she had discovered he was warming his skillet with his Mexican secretary — the receipts for chili peppers and cartons of eggs, accompanied by the onset of an acute attack of gastric ulcers, had given him away. He was intolerant to spicy food. It had been pleasurable to watch him sweat.

To his credit, he’d always shaken his egg whisk outside of the home. Until last month, when she returned from a weekend at her daughter’s to be confronted by a glistening mountain of slimy eggshells in the garbage can. A half-spent tube of wasabi paste nestled triumphantly against the shattered remains. She knew what those shards meant. He denied it, of course. What a chicken. At the same time, she had discovered the foreign egg whisk in the kitchen drawer — a cutesy, gimmicky, feminine-looking article. “A gift,” he had said off-handedly, “from a friend.” She knew of the potential for behavioral changes post-surgery, even though he hadn’t allowed her to accompany him to the hospital for his consultations. She had closed her eyes on that obscenity of eggshells and pictured him on the surgeon’s table, ribcage cracked open, the yolk of his heart revealed. When he wakes up, he’ll have a different one.

She walked out of the hospital and went home to pack her bags. You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. Which was as good a reason as any as to why she had stayed so long, but he was permanently scrambled, and no surgery could fix that. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men… On the way out of the house, she swiped the egg whisk. She had no use for it, but it gave her satisfaction knowing that he’d miss it. Later, when he left angry messages on her answering machine, she’d take it out and beat the air with it. The egg whisk always managed to take on Tamago’s expression — properly surprised and somewhat frightened.

Object No. 26 of 50 — Significant Objects v3

[The auction for this object, with story by Brian Evenson, has ended. Original price: $1.99. Final price: $20.50. Significant Objects will donate the proceeds from this auction to Girls Write Now.]

The thing about flashlights — and really, if we are inclined to be completely honest, the thing about any of the objects that we carapace ourselves with, that we use to hedge ourselves in — is that they are, more or less, interchangeable. As long as they function as they are meant to function, we hardly notice them. Nine times out of ten, one object of near-identical make can be substituted for another without anyone noticing until it’s too late.

I’ll go ahead and say it again, despite knowing you will choose to believe what you have already chosen to believe. This is my flashlight. You can see for yourself that it’s in perfect condition. No sign of excessive wear, no indication of it having been used for any purpose other than what the manufacturer intended: viz., the illumination of other subject and objects swallowed up in the dark. Admire the way the chrome of the casing shines evenly. The incomparable gleam of the dimpled reflector, uncracked and perfect. There is no discoloration to the ribbed grip, no trace of rust or dirt or of any other substance such as, say, blood.

Admittedly, it has been clicked on and turned off. The flashbeam has been directed in first one direction and then another. But it has never been wielded as if it were a club. Such a flashlight has never done any damage to anything, to anyone. It is a simple, uncomplicated object, free of any relation to clots of blood or clumps of hair, chips of bone or hunks of gore.

Where the other flashlight, the one allegedly found in the drawer of my kitchen, came from, I cannot venture to guess. It has nothing to do with me. It is not my flashlight. This is my flashlight, not that.

Until you accept that, officer, we are not likely to get anywhere.

Object No. 20 of 50 — Significant Objects v3

[The auction for this object, with story by Dara Horn, has ended. Original price: $2.99. Final price: $47.20. Significant Objects will donate the proceeds from this auction to Girls Write Now.]

Among Franz Kafka’s possessions upon his death from tuberculosis in 1924 were many unpublished manuscripts and personal effects, all entrusted to the novelist Max Brod, whom Kafka had appointed as executor of his estate. In his will, Kafka specifically instructed Brod to burn all of his manuscripts, an order which Brod chose to defy. No instructions were provided regarding Kafka’s personal effects.

In addition to The Trial, Kafka at the time of his death was also at work on another manuscript, tentatively titled Metamorphosis II: Monkey Puppet. A sequel to The Metamorphosis, Metamorphosis II continues the story of the surreally afflicted Samsa family. After Gregor the cockroach’s death and Mr. and Mrs. Samsa’s relief as they notice their daughter Grete’s blossoming young figure (“they had come to the conclusion that it would soon be time to find a good husband for her”) in the final pages of Volume 1, Metamorphosis II resumes ten years later, with Grete Rosenzweig, née Samsa, as a discontented hausfrau and indulgent mother of three in Prague. In the opening paragraph, Grete Rosenzweig awakens from uneasy dreams to discover that she has been transformed into a plush puppet belonging to her surly and ungrateful six-year-old son Adolf. As young Adolf begins a systematic program of sadistic destruction of his playthings, Grete reconsiders her approach to parenting while pondering the absence of God.

“Franz should have appointed another executor if he had been absolutely and finally determined that his instructions should stand,” Brod later wrote. “But when I read Monkey Puppet, I immediately saw a way to honor his wishes.”

In this fashion Metamorphosis II: Monkey Puppet was lost to the ages, along with several pages from Kafka’s diary that referred to Brod’s wife as “obtuse.” Today only the puppet itself remains, silent witness to the limitations of art.

No. 17 of 50 — Significant Objects v3

[The auction for this object, with story by Dan Piepenbring, has ended. Original price: $1.00. Final price: $20.50. Significant Objects will donate the proceeds from this auction to Girls Write Now.]

—Step right up ladies and germs I said step right up fer yer chance to glance the World Famous All-Around Renowned Crowd-Pleasing Brain-Teasing Mind-Reading Dishware of Decatur! The Twenty-Seventh Wonder of the World folks a bargain at just twenty-five cents a view just twenty-five cents!

—Jeepers all the way from Decatur to Houston golly! Hey mister whudda them dishes like? I hear they’re all coppery some kinda holy trinity from ancient times got all kindsa bizarre fruits drawn on ’em what kindsa fruit mister?

—Step right up folks. Lookie emerging now it’s another bunch of sat-tees-fied customers tell me folks what’d the Mind-Reading Dishware of Decatur do fer ya?

—I can feel m’toes again! My teeth’re whiter!

—Reminded me to refill my windshield washer fluid.

—Brought me back t’behind the gymnasium bleachers Mayfield Senior Prom Spring of ’72 happiest I ever was.

—Gave me a hankerin’ for apples ’n’ oranges at’s fer sure.

—There y’have it people! More glowin’ reviews an’ high-flyin’ news courtesy of the All-Knowin’ Truth-Showin’ uh . . . Nose-Blowin’ Dishware of Decatur yessir! Now tell me who among ya dares to bare his soul? Who’ll swill the glorious Kool-Aid of Ages?

—Well I’m a man of God, probly shouldn’t—

—Sir never fear this here dishware’s God-fearing as Job himself now get right on in there that’s it I’ll just take those five bucks now ’n’ make some change when you come out enjoy.

—GRACIOUS ME!

—Everything kosher in there?

—Why, this dishware’s blessed!

—Uhm well yes sure—

—Saw the face of Christ starin’ right back at me from that illustrated melon slice! Praise Gawd! Gotta buy these for my parish!

—Let’s not get carried away nothin’s goin’ anywhere. I mean unless you’re Rich Uncle Pennybags.

—Rays of heav’nly light! Dunno I’m just a lowly preacher you mighta seen my church on yer way in, used to be a basketball stadium . . .

—Make an offer ain’t got all night.

—Well with the tithe and audiobook royalties minus baptismal font renovations, new hi-def TVs, let’s . . . how’s $40,000?

—SON OF MAN! You crazy?

—Fine, $45,000 then.

—Got yerself a deal shake on it you got a company checkbook I mean a church checkbook or I take PayPal—

—Who do I make it out—

—Cash thanks.

—Be honored if you’d stop by Lakewood on Sunday to explain—

—Sure if y’need me I’m fetchin’ Peep Show Petunia o’er there at the Hall of Succulent Venialities hightailin’ it t’Vegas see ya!

—W-wait! Where uh where did you discover such holy specimens?

—Some kinda . . . French boutique, yeah ‘Tar-jay.’ Toodles!

—‘Tar-jay’ huh well I’ll be . . . wait y’don’t mean . . . ! Get back here! Why I oughta!

Object No. 11 of 50 — Significant Objects v3

[The auction for this object, with story by Scott Jacobson, has ended. Original price: 99 cents. Final price: $22.72. Significant Objects will donate the proceeds of this auction to Girls Write Now.]

Donald “Dax” Florin stood behind the bar, balancing the hard-boiled eggs. Dax — 44 years old, face just a lifestyle change or two away from being handsome in a Treat Williams kinda way — placed the eggs upright on a small metal dish. There they sat: six little Dax-directed insults, dumpy and lazy in their stupid egg craters, like fat kids strapped in and waiting for a carnival ride to start. Dax flipped a tin cocktail shaker in the air and caught it behind his back peevishly.

Dax was a “flair bartender”. Which is to say he tossed stuff around. Dax did bar tricks because he was good at them. And because his acting career was pretty much kicked. Jesse, the owner, got annoyed whenever Dax skipped limes or lobbed shakers or sent a Grey Goose bottle spinning into a triple axel. Dax didn’t care what Jesse thought about his flair bartending. But this egg plate was a problem.

For all his talent, Dax could not work the plate into his routine. He’d tried spinning it, but the plate — too light, obviously not manufactured to the rigorous technical specs so crucial for stunt-serving — just wobbled arhythmically on Dax’s finger before clattering on the bar. And the eggs themselves were perfect for juggling, but what was Dax, a clown? Not to mention the obvious egg symbolism, hardly lost on a guy who’d taken his share of Joseph Campbell-larded screenplay seminars, of birth and renewal. These eggs were taunting Dax, and his increasingly ovoid gut, and his dead career.

But eh, thought Dax. Maybe I’m reading too much into these eggs.

Two guys walked into the bar. One was dressed in a suit, the other was… somebody.

Jesse leaned over the bar and whispered: It’s Dax Shepard!

Dax grunted acknowledgment as Jesse shifted into kiss-ass mode, fist-pounding the young actor, racking his brain for obscure cameo performances to praise. Dax the Elder did what he always did when he felt awkward and uncomfortable behind the bar: he spun two liquor bottles by his hips like smoking six-shooters.

Whoa, Dax! You think you’re tending bar at Chili’s? Jesus, ha ha!

Dax Shepard didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. But Dax the Elder thought he saw something cruel in his eyes. He spun the bottles faster.

Jesse laughed: Someone’s in the mood to perform!

Dax tossed a bottle of Prosecco over his shoulder and caught it. He took two beer bottles by the necks and twirled them like drumsticks. He reached for the little metal egg dish, balanced it on his finger, and spun it hard.

Eggs shot off in all directions. One hit Dax Shepard’s sharply dressed companion. One, blessedly, hit Jesse. But even amid the chaos and shell shrapnel, Dax Shepard went unscathed. Dax the Elder took a breath. He thought about stuff, all kinds of stuff. He ran a hand through his hair. Then he fixed Dax Shepard in his sights, and flung the metal dish like a Frisbee at the actor’s forehead.

Object No. 6 of 50 -- Significant Objects v3

[ The auction for this object, with story by Benjamin Percy, has ended. Original price: $1.50. Final price: $63.50. Significant Objects will donate the proceeds of this auction to Girls Write Now. ]

I brought to school a rubber-band gun I bought at the mall. I bought it at that store with the tarot cards and the stink bombs and the beer T-shirts and the posters of women in thongs bending over on beaches with sand stuck to them in all the right places. So I brought to school the gun and showed it off to Stacey Swanson. I was a little in love with her. By that I mean I regularly jerked off into an athletic sock when thinking about her naked.

Normally she would not talk to me except to say, “Don’t even talk to me — you haven’t even gone through puberty yet.” But this time, when I held out the rubber-band gun, she said, “Let me see that.” She grabbed the gun and weighed it in her hand a moment before lifting her arm and staring down the line of it and shooting me directly in the eyeball.

The eyeball did not fare well. The rubber band hit the pupil directly, punctured it, buried itself like a worm. The doctor removed the eyeball and put it in a bottle of formaldehyde. I keep the bottle on my dresser. I can tell the temperature by the eyeball, its buoyancy. Whether it is up or down makes me throw on shorts or a sweatshirt. Sometimes the eyeball seems to stare at me. And sometimes, when the pressure drops and a thunderstorm rolls through, the eyeball spins in circles like some possessed weathervane.

Every night I clean out the socket with a warm washcloth, a squirt of soap. There is a smell otherwise.

Used to be, people would make fun of me, a little rough in the hallways with their shoulders, a shove at the urinals. Now nobody touches me. They call me Cyclops and they beg me to lift my eyelid, show them the scooped-out socket. Sometimes I do.

I put things in the socket. A penny. A marble. A strawberry. You should have seen the look on Gabby’s face when I walked up to her desk and without a word dug into the socket and pulled out the mushed-up strawberry and popped it in my mouth to swallow.

Other things, too. Like a tongue. Stacey Swanson’s if you can believe it. Ever since she shot me in the eyeball she has been touching me on the shoulder, asking, “How are you today, Jimmy?” One time she asked if there was anything she could do for me. I said there was. She said, no, not that, that was terrible — that was the most disgusting she had ever heard. But I said please, it would mean a lot to me, and offered her the forty dollars I had swiped from my mother’s purse.

She wiped her mouth afterwards and demanded the money and ran from me crying and I stood there, behind the school dumpster, breathing heavily and shaking with an electric pleasure that I never would have experienced had it not been for the rubber-band gun.

Object No. 5 of 50 — Significant Objects v3

[The auction for this object, with story by Jim Hanas, has ended. Original price: $1.50. Final price: $27.00. Previous installments in Hanas' series "Why They Cried" are here. Proceeds from this auction will go to Girls Write Now. ]

Why They Cried: Jacqueline

Cause: Sharp, icy wind

The air was cold and the wind was sharp, causing Jacqueline’s eyes to water in a manner resembling weep-based tear production—a fact she tried to explain to Rex, the bastard, when (of all the luck) she ran into him as she emerged from the food co-op, a basketful of fruits and brans and probiotic solutions hanging from her bent right elbow.

“I knew you missed me,” he said, seeing the tears streaming down her red cheeks. “I knew you couldn’t live without me.”

“I don’t miss you and, yes, I can live without you,” she said, erasing the tears with her tightly gloved fingers. “It’s the wind.”

He smiled.

“Yes I suppose our love was like the wind,” he said. “Subtle, omnipresent, powerful.”

“No, no, asshole,” she said, frantically running the heel of her free hand under each eye. “I’m not crying. The wind got in my eyes and…”

“Bracing, kind…”

“I wasn’t even thinking about you,” she screamed as she swung the basket at Rex’s left temple, showering the sidewalk with clementines and five whole grains, which strangers happily helped pile back into Jacqueline’s basket as the paramedics loaded Rex onto a stretcher.

Object No. 4 of 50 -- Significant Objects v3

[The auction for this item, with story by Charles Baxter, has ended. Original price: $3.00. Final price: $23.50. Significant Objects will donate the proceeds of this auction to Girls Write Now.]

This beautiful object was discovered in downtown Minneapolis, Minnesota, by a high school student, Emily Traumer, on the corner of North First Street and Third Avenue. Emily was waiting for the morning bus and was bored, as adolescents usually are. Looking down to see if her Doc Martens were tied, she saw a meteorite on top of a pile of shoveled snow. She picked it up. It was still warm from its fiery entry through the Earth’s atmosphere.

She dropped the meteorite in her pocket. It radiated inter-stellar warmth throughout the bus ride all the way to Anton Kiesiewicz High School, where her science teacher, Mr. Duderstadt, complimented Emily for her sharp eyes. He pointed out to her that the shell pattern, quite characteristic of meteorites generally, was produced by the “turbo effect” of oxygen and nitrogen against the rock as it enters the atmosphere. The characteristic blue coloring on the larger side of the rock is a result of the “spectrum burning” of heat against the materials, producing a glass-like surface; hotter surfaces turn blue, while cooler surfaces, shielded from the direct heat of atmospheric forces, remain white. The formula for such heating, Mr. Duderstadt said, approaching his blackboard, could be written out as follows:

µ = ∑ (34f) – 2™ + $5.32≥4% x Ω ([@5£7] + ¥5)

He then inquired whether he might take the meteorite over to the University of Minnesota’s Fowlwell Hall, where the eminent astrophysicist, Professor Heinz Schlempp, might take a look. Emily agreed, somewhat reluctantly.

Four days later, Mr. Duderstadt returned with the meteorite. “Well, Emily,” he said, during his Wednesday science salon, “that’s a very interesting piece you have there.”

“Was Professor Schlempp able to determine of what materials the meteorite consisted?” Emily inquired, somewhat baffled, syntactically, by all the attention her discovery was garnering.

“Yes, he was,” Mr. Duderstadt said.

“What’s in it?” the impatient schoolgirl asked.

“Well, that’s the interesting part,” Mr. Duderstadt said, leaning back in his chair, and rearranging his necktie. “Professor Schlempp put it into his spectrometer, and then placed a tiny microscopic sample into the Gigatron® electron microscope, and then, dissatisfied with his result, put the meteorite into the university’s Super-Vulcan X-ray Analysis Machine, where a definitive analysis finally became possible.”

“And?”

“Well, here’s the surprise,” said the genial wizard of Kiesiewicz High. “The piece naturally has a high content of Iron, whose symbol, as you know, is fe. But more interesting was Schlempp’s discovery that the object has a high content of the rare earth, Probabilium, along with a certain amount of Potassium, Cyanide, and Blorth.”

“Blorth?” asked Emily. “That’s awesome!”

“The rarest of metals!” Mr. Duderstadt cried out. Turning around, he wrote on the blackboard again. “To get Blorth,” he said, “you have to have the following force-fields in an inter-active matrix.”

æ = 45£ ≠ 8! x µ2 ≥ 14®

“Wow,” the astonished teenager said.

“Exactly. This meteorite is priceless. And not only is it priceless, it’s beautiful. And useful.”

“I could use it as a paperweight,” Emily said.

“There’s no limit to a person’s imagination,” Mr. Duderstadt said, conclusively.