short stories

The task atop the mountain

Three men stood at the foot of the Mahalangur Himal range, nested among the Himalayan Mountains, its peaks shrouded in clouds. This range housed Mt. Everest, the Himalayas’ highest point, yet these three weren’t just seeking the physical pinnacle; they sought to achieve a heightened state of mind and spirit.

Without hesitation, they proceeded to hike to the summit of Earth’s apex. Though they could not see their destination, all three strided confidently with the knowledge that, at this ceiling of reality, sat His Holiness the Honorable Shinrashanrakar, surrounded in a marble shrine that put the Taj Mahal to shame.

A day and a night of vertical traversing passed. They only stopped for several hours to sleep. The mental and physical exertion, the thinning air that nipped at their extremities, and lack of adequate sustenance soon began to take their toll.

Then hope. Upon a cliff, nature’s gable, thick in the fog of the high-altitude stratosphere, the ground leveled. They each firmly set their hiking boots into the solid ground.

No more need for climbing. They could finally walk.

Their pain was further alleviated at the sight of the mile-long shrine, off on the horizon. What seemed like a rather large entrance, from a squinting distance, grew greater still as they approached the intimidating edifice. When they arrived at the marble steps of the great temple, the actual size of the door exceeded any of the three’s wildest estimates. Alan, considered to be the most clever of the three, compared its ominous size to a gerth fit to plug the famous Arc de Triomphe, in Paris, France. His was a modest estimate.

After several moments standing in awe of the giant arching oak doors, Victor the largest of the three, a towering 6’7″ and 300 pounds of solid muscle, stepped ahead to heave them open. On the other side, a mile-long hand-woven red carpet lied before the gentlemen. And they began to walk it, barefoot. Luckily, Alan caught sight of a sign just on the other side of the doors that read, in all languages of the World, Please leave your shoes by the entrance. Thank you. As they walked, their toes brushed over the finely fashioned threads, which formed intricate designs and painted pictures in their minds’ eyes.

Finally, they approached HH Shinrashanrakar. This earthbound demigod assumed an altar atop a 10-foot pedastal. His flowing hair and beard draped halfway down the column, intertwining with his silk robes that continued downward still, nearly reaching the carpeted marble floor. He could only pick one man to bestow his wealth of knowledge he had sustained for nearly 80 years. He, therefore, asked each of them a question.

“What do you wish to be?” he said, to no one in particular.

Alan the shrewdest, suavest of the three spoke. He figured acting first could be strategic.

“I want to be a shark, a Great White, nature’s perfect hunter. They’ve evolved over millions of years to thrive and thrash toward exacting their goal. If you pick me, I will attack the task with the determination and precision of the Great White.”

HH peered deeply into Alan’s eyes. He saw only truth and nodded slowly and gently. His eyes blinked ever so slightly.

Victor, ever the competitor, wasted no time in seizing the opportunity to top the clever Alan.

“Well I would embody an amazing Orca,” he blurted, “the ‘Killer Whale.’ And I would hunt this supposed nature’s perfect hunter. I would find the Great White and I would eat him. I would then exist as an even greater being, having defeated that shark, its energy in my belly. Then only I would be have the power to carry out your task.”

HH received Victor’s words in the same manner he had Alan’s, though he lingered for less time on Victor. The hulk’s confident delivery required less convincing.

Several minutes passed by in silence. At last, HH the Honorable Shinrashanrakar turned to the third man. He repeated his question.

The man paused for effect. Then he figuratively and firmly held the heavy marble floor.

“I apologize for the delay,” he said. “Where I come from, it’s good form to wait until the host speaks to his guest. Although, in that time, I did have some time for reflection of my predecessors’ responses. And they added electricity to the brainstorm, which I will now detail to you, your Holiness.

“When I heard the Killer Whale’s response, I had a tough time imagining an animal or a force larger than that mighty sea mammoth. Sure there’s the Blue Whale. I suppose it could swallow the Orca whole, but what would that really prove? I doubt that it could more adequately carry out whatever you wish us to do. And then I thought of your question, which you just kindly repeated to me after the many moments from your original inquiry. You said ‘What,’ which doesn’t necessarily limit the options to animals. In fact, of all of the interrogative pronouns, ‘what’ implies the most possibility. And that’s when I could smell the salty air and hear heavy waves crashing. I flew on the body of an impetuous underwater tsunami. I crashed against mountains and roared tide in and tide out. I touched the seven continents simultaneously and felt the souls of every lifeform in me. I thought of the Great White Shark and the Orca swimming on my deepwater currents. If I wanted, I could swallow them in a downward funnel or I could whip and tumble them until they washed ashore. But then I realized I would exist whether they swam or not and I decided to let them be. They could even help me in the task at hand. This task that I would perform as the mighty Ocean.”

The old wise man slowly closed his eyes. He inhaled in long, deep breaths through his nostrils and then exhaled, slower still, through his mouth now, which looked like a tiny ‘o.’ Ocean could see Shrinrashanrakar’s eyes beneath his lids moving rapidly. The REM (rapid eye movement) reminded Ocean of walking barefoot along the carpeted mile to the wise man’s throne.

Then, His Holiness spoke. His eyes still closed.

“You three have certainly offered interesting answers to the question I presented. You seemed to have given your responses thought and you delivered them with great command of the English language. Yet, none of you knew for which task I had intended. How could you know what you wish to be without knowledge of the matter at hand?”

Ocean, formerly feeling confident in his answer, now saw how he and his traveling companions had failed in their responses to HH Shinrashanrakar. Ocean’s shoulders sank. His chest, formerly puffed outward, now returned to its concavity.

Shinrashanrakar opened his eyes and continued.

“All three of you mentioned great beings that could each perform amazing things, provided the situation suited their natures. Although, what if the task was to ascend to the summit of a great mountain? Why, none of you would be here right now, would you? Alan as the shark, Victor as the orca, and Ocean as, well, the ocean. None of you could climb this summit as these beings. You made it just fine, as the men I see before me. So I ask you again, What do you wish to be?”

Ocean, standing between Victor and Alan, looked from side to side. Neither of them seemed ready to speak, shifting in their stance. Their eyes oscillated, searching desperately inward upon their minds for an answer to the wise man’s reiterated question. Perhaps another question was, in fact, the solution, Ocean thought.

“Your Holiness,” Ocean said, the ‘ness’ from ‘Holiness’ echoed off the marble walls and floors of the shrine. “I see where we three have gone wrong now. We may have jumped hastily into an answer, without first acquiring all of the necessary information. You asked us what we wished to be. Well, what are the circumstances of our existence?”

Shinrashanrakar’s eyes sparkled at Ocean’s inquiry.

“Ahh…,” His Holiness’s eyes grew wide as he pointed his left index finger upward toward the ornate ceiling painted to look like the infinite space of an indigo sky.

“Shark, Orca, do you see what Ocean has realized here?”

Alan and Victor locked eyes, each shaking his head. Then they both glared at Ocean with furrowed brows. Ocean was oblivious to their intimidation born of frustration; he hung in excited anticipation on Shinrashanrakar’s words.

“Ocean has revealed that being is entirely predicated upon the environment in which we are. Often, it is not the strongest or wisest being that excels in life. It is the being that is most suited for that time and place. So again, I ask you, What do you wish to be?”

Alan began to catch on. “What specific time and what particular place, your Holiness?” he said.

“A valid question, Shark, but one that I cannot answer. We are all merely human and none of us gods who can control when we will exist. We must, therefore, live in the time we are granted and make the most of it.”

“Well, I suppose this task that you require will somehow color our place in this world. If we knew more of this task, then we’d know which place, and then we would know how to exist in this place.”

“You have forgotten time, sir,” Shinrashanrakar said.

“Yes, and time… Although wouldn’t time be entirely contingent upon when we have to carry out this task?”

“Time is always under our control. It is contingent upon nothing. At every moment in our lives, we have the choice to act or not act. This is the rhythm of existence.”

“I thought you just said that we weren’t gods, that we could not control when we existed.”

“True, we cannot control when we are brought into this world. However, when we make an imprint upon the fabric of spacetime, we can control what ripples emit from our initial inception.”

“Forgive me, sir, but I’m confused,” Alan’s clever mind ran in circles. In silence, he over thought the oddity of time.

Victor then realized he hadn’t spoken in a while. A need to be heard bubbled in the pit of his diaphragm and errupted out his gruff throat.

“Your Holiness, let me see if I get this straight. We can’t control when we exist, but we can control when we act. And we can act in wherever place. So perhaps what Alan the Shark has neglected to address is where would this task occur?”

Shinrashanrakar arched his back and spread his knees outward across his red velvet pillow seat, with a silver trim that tassled at the pillow’s five corners. His body became a perfectly equilateral triangle. He tilted his head back slowly and then brought it back round to look Victor squarely in the face.

“The task is everywhere because it is nowhere,” he said. His lips formed a straight line across his mouth, nearly concealed in his bright, white beard. This subtle action signified his response was sufficient to Victor’s inquiry.

“Your Holiness, I too am confused,” Victor’s voice escalated. “You ask us what we wish to be. We tell you. Then you ask how can we know what we should be without knowing the time and place first. We ask you when and where and you say that these cannot be known. It seems we have reached in impasse.”

Ocean sensed the rising tension between the wise man and the Orca. However, HH Shinrashanrakar seemed unwavered in Victor’s words. The five-pointed pillow seat also served as a launch pad into what was now a deep meditative state. The corners of his mouth curled slightly upward, his eyes gently closed again. His entire disposition resembled one of those golden smiling Buddha statues. Complete. Content.

Ocean then whispered to his two traveling companions.

“Guys, I don’t think we can lose our cool with His Holiness. He seems to have shut down. If any of us want him to bestow his knowledge, we’re going to have to play along.”

At this, the two—the Orca and the Shark—let the Ocean once again hold the heavy marble floor.

“Sir, Your Holiness,” he spoke quietly, as if to lull the wise man gently back into consciousness. “We’re sorry if we have offended you. Victor… the Orca, he is passionate and just wants an answer—”

“—One needs patience for this task,” Shinrashanrakar’s eyes opened suddenly.

Ocean exhaled in relief. He had revived his ancient mentor from Victor’s verbal attack. Perhaps now they could get somewhere with what seemed to be an interrogation of a wise man.

“OK,” Ocean said. “So we’re learning more about this task. Time and place are important. We will need to be patient. But let’s get back to basics. I now know that we can’t know what we should be, until we know what we have to do. Before I tell you what I wish to be, let me first ask you, Your Holiness, what is the task that you require of us?”

“Ahhh…” that same sparkle returned to HH Shinrashanrakar’s eyes. It was as if Ocean’s gradual enlightenment reflected in the wise man’s dilated pupils.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

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short stories

New media, old establishment

To all of those stubborn newspaper readers/writers out there, playing violins with ink-stained thumbs on the Titanic of print journalism, as it plummets desperately into the unforgiving Atlantic Ocean…

The game has changed.

And this abrupt shift is not to spite old-fashioned journalism. There’s just a better, more efficient way of doing things now.

It would be impossible, downright assinine, to go back to the old ways. That would be like rubbing two sticks together to start a fire, when you know perfectly well that an orange BiC lighter, nestled snugly in your back pocket, fully fueled, will ignite at the stroke of that serrated sparkwheel.

I can say this because I studied journalism—multimedia journalism, in fact—at just the right time, when everything (and I mean EVERYTHING) was shifting. It felt like entering willingly into a black hole. The very fabric of my being has been altered at a fundamental level and I think we’re all still scrambling to collect some semblance of order in these volatile times.

Frankly, I don’t know where I’ll end up, at what corner of the Universe this black hole will take me. That’s part of the fun and what scares the living shit out of me. But I like my vantage point within the eye of the storm. From here, I can find peace and set aside a little time to tell you old-fashioned journalists the way it is, just like your beloved Walter Cronkite used to…

A brief history of a Web journalist

When I graduated from Stonehill College, in 2004, with a bachelor’s in philosophy, I had little to no idea of my place in the professional world. I took the first job I could, in finance. Needless to say, it was not for me.

After several years, a passion for writing emerged and I made the decision to leave my job and pursue this dream full-time. I enrolled in a master’s program at Emerson College, in the journalism department. My goal was to learn how to write professionally. They did coach us well in that capacity, but I learned very early on that the industry of journalism was changing. Online news had revolutionized the way we perceived the media. And Emerson, ever the savvy institution in communications, intended to prepare us for this new world.

Instead of only focusing on writing, they had to equip us with the knowledge of this digital landscape. In place of writing news story after news story, we took a crash course in news writing and then focused on how to create news packages that incorporated multimedia. At even the initial conceptual stage of a story, we had to perceive how it would appear on a news website.

These packages could include hyperlinks, graphics, video, sound, etc. Visitors not only read online news stories; they interacted with them. We had to consider these other corresponding components, as well, throughout the newsgathering and storytelling process. I suspected my study of writing suffered, but I remained open-minded.

After two years of intensive print and multimedia journalism, I was graduated from Emerson with a master’s in just that. Upon leaving, I took in as much experience as I could. I wasn’t sure where this experience would lead me.

I managed to land a job reporting for the Boston Herald. Then a chance ad I found on Twitter earned me a position updating Patriots.com.

Accumulating a diverse experience in all things media, old and new, I still could not focus.

The job market remained unpredictable.

When the Patriots’ 2010-11 season ended, I found myself unemployed and began applying to many jobs. I was lucky to come across an open position at Perkins School for the Blind, which needed a Web Content Writer. The requirements spoke to my experience, thus far, and I applied. Brandishing a broad base of Web writing experience to the hiring managers, I got the job.

It seemed as though I would primarily write, but when I arrived at the nation’s oldest school for visual impairment, in Watertown, Mass., the responsibilities included many other duties—running Perkins’ social media, laying out webpages in HTML code, formatting photos in PhotoShop and understanding functionality of the content management system. This job had quite the technical side, which I resisted at first. I thought of myself purely as a writer, but remained open-minded.

I developed these technical skills to complement my Web writing and, after a while, it made more sense that these were necessary for the role. Over time, I even developed a knack for creating dynamic webpages for Perkins.org and began focusing less on the copy. I regret this now because I believe it may have stunted my progression as a professional writer. I simply wasn’t practicing enough, as requests for e-marketing campaigns, technical troubleshooting, and initiatives from Perkins ever-expanding eLearning department abounded.

Then, suddenly, I found myself unemployed, once again.

Like a said earlier, I didn’t know where this worm hole would lead me. To what end?

About two years into the Web content writing role, the communications director made a drastic shift in organization. She dismantled the Web team, for whom I had formerly written Web content, and said I was now just a writer. That’s what she hired me for: to write! Apparently, the term “web content” that had initially modified my title of “writer,” now meant nothing.

Even though the rest of the world was moving on to the grander electronic platform, Perkins was content just rubbing two sticks together.

They didn’t need me anymore. It just didn’t make sense to me! What a waste of talent, expertise and intimate knowledge of the organization, I thought.

Then I found peace. (Perhaps centered once again in the eye of the new media storm.) I knew that truth does not always guide organizations, however big… or old, they may be.

People in the real world would evolve into new and exciting modes of interconnected perception. Yet Perkins would stay the same.

And that’s the way it is.

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short stories

Mediocre bad guys

If motivation was the key, then he had found it in revenge. Not the retaliation enacted on an enemy, the solace one attains by success in indifference to those who said otherwise of his skill, of his character and his ability. Thus, the motivation would propel him to create something of a masterpiece that defied all of these supposed critics’ expert opinions of excellence. His work exceeded their wildest notions of this ideal. In defiance and denial, they would say that his words made no sense to their “discernible” intellectual pallets. Although secretly, or subconsciously at least, they knew this misunderstanding only proved an inability to comprehend a truth beyond them.

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Verse

Gurus say…

Gurus say “Live life in the moment.” The past and future are mere figments of our imagination. To live in those realms is to live life in a dream. To sleepwalk.

I think a lot of people live for the future, however, because they realize their present situation is not good. And they want to make it better. They know, or at least have an unwavering faith, that when they accomplish that goal, when they solve that problem, when they meet that person that completely and utterly shifts their life into almost an elevated consciousness, they know then that things will be better. And the present is tolerable, but that’s not why they live. They live for that ideal, that faith in something bigger, greater, more real or more beautiful.

Our mortal bodies will all eventually succumb to entropy and decay. They will return to the dust from whence they came. But the notion, the idea lives on. Ever searching, ever hoping, ever believing that there is a place greater than this. An infinite love that finally feels like home.

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Profiles, short stories

Tugbato

tugbato

He arrived with the rain and the wind. He struck with the lightning and the thunder. The trees shook as he approached the tiny Nantucket island.

“Beware of the great and awful Tugbato!” Mother Nature wailed with each whirling gust.

He was a force cast from the deep, subterranean magma and forged into a Fu Manchu’d superhuman foaming with full-bodied ferocity.

“No more Tugbato!” the Nantucketers cried, curled up in their wood-shingled cottages. Their desperate pleas would land on deaf ears…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Verse

Be the monkey wrench

Reinvent yourself.
The public,
they won’t know what to make of the new you.

They will try and try to mold you
into the preexisting notion of your former self.

For that is the comfortable idea
that fits snugly as a cog,
in their unconscious belief system.

Explode from these rigid machines.
They do not define you.

When their engines break down,
be the monkey wrench
that initially seized the process
and now fixes their thinking.

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short stories

See previous tweet…

Someone suddenly appeared at his doorstep. He never in fact saw this someone, just heard heavy footsteps creaking the weathered slats of his front porch. Perhaps a psychic, or maybe even a time traveler (if that’s possible), rapped on the large brass hanger that hung eye level on the monolithic frontdoor of his childhood home. The stranger left only a single business card, before disappearing as mysteriously as he had arrived. The boy of 12 slowly opened the door. Its hinges squeaked. And there, on the rough welcome mat, a tiny, neatly printed note.

The rather plain looking 2-inch by 3.5-inch piece of paper read:

Top tweets from mikedelrosso.com

Both hands clutched #burrito, while he spoke into #earbuds. He refused to let a phone #convo impede talking with a full mouth @bolococommons
@TeamCoco Boston is the Wolverine of American cities.”
@TheOnion In Focus: NBA Arrested For Marijuana Possession Onion.com
@natedog4th That pie’s gotta be cold by now!

The year: 1994. In the very first line, “mikedelrosso.com” resembled something he had seen on this brand new computer reality called “The Internet.” Yet he could not comprehend why his name appeared before the “DOT com.” The 12-year-old imagination ran wild on fresh Fresh Prince of Bel-Air episodes and an uncomplicated opinion of the opposite sex, igniting elaborately impossible scenarios. In 1994, these were perfectly viable universes.

The 12-year-old intellect then attempted an extrapolation of “@bolococommons.”

“Where is bolo- bolo- bolocommons?” he said. “Boloco Commons? Boloco on the Commons.” The imagination took it one step too far. “Boston Local Commons,” the 12-year-old said. “Oh, so they change Boston Common to ‘The Local Boston Commons.'” The odorless scent of humor wafted his 12-year-old nose.

He knew who Wolverine was. The early-’90s 12-year-old logged some serious hours watching Marvel’s animated X-Men TV show.

@TeamCoco needed some explaining. @ConanOBrien was barely causing ripples in the toilet, let alone lighting up the Nielson ratings, in 1994. And it would be a decade and a half before @tomhanks coined Conan as Coco.

He believed that the entire NBA had been arrested for marijuana possession, which was devastating. He was really into basketball that year. The 1980s-born @celtics dynasty had fallen, but the Chicago Bulls were about to conclude the athletic trilogy of a 3-peat. @Jumpman23 believed he could fly.

He read the last tweet.

He wondered, “Who was @natedog4th?”

Or was it Nate Dog IV? And why did he care how cold the pie was? If only, he could see the previous tweet.

Also, What is a tweet? he thought.

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awkward

The Prank Chat

Amazon Instant Video wasn’t working. It was late. I had nothing better to do. And based on what Atir had said, neither of us could do anything about it. At that point, there was really only one option: keep Atir on the “line” as long as humanly possible…

Read the entire chat at mikedelrosso.com

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awkward

I want to ride my bicycle. I want to ride my bike. I want to ride my bicycle… I’m a big f%ckin’ prick

Almost ran this bicycler off of the road the other day. He was taking up the entire right side of the street, nowhere near the bike lane. I came right up on his back wheel and slammed the brakes, after trying to pass someone in the left lane. I didn’t see him around the other car. Luckily, for him, the anti-lock mechanisms kicked in like clockwork.

At my first opportunity, I slid into the left passing lane and laid on my horn. I use my horn to express a message I can’t otherwise verbally deliver to the motorist, or CYCLIST, at fault. That message, in this particular case, was this: “If you’re riding a bicycle, don’t take up an entire lane that requires a rate of speed your bird legs aren’t capable of pedaling.”

He exclaimed some profanities into my open right window, as I passed. It was an unseasonably warm March day and I decided to drive with the windows wide open. I remember screaming FahkYouu! but I don’t think I gave him the finger—that borders on the line of wreckless driving when you’re operating a stick shift.

At the inevitable next traffic light, I saw him first in my rightside mirror, pedaling up. Warning: Douche bags are closer than they appear. He then circled round the hood of my car and squared up at the driver’s side window. He angled his horn-shaped handle bars, as if he was setting to charge. His 1984 Schwarzenegger sunglasses from Terminator glistened in the sunlight.

“That’s not a fuckin’ sports car! It’s a fuckin’ Golf! … Don’t ever do that to me again!”

“Do what?” I said.

“Fuckin’ jam me up, you fuckin’ prick!”

To all motorists on the mean Boston streets: this is a forewarning. When you see cyclists pedaling along the road, at a piddly pace, please don’t “jam up” these lower body athletes! Even though they are completely interrupting the flow of otherwise fluid traffic, please, don’t get in THEIR way. The fact that they tread lighter on their carbon footprints than any vehicle guzzling fossil fuel, grant them the higher road always.

THEY are God’s gift to the highways and byways of this hallowed Commonwealth.

Then he pedaled away. To demonstrate an act of no hard feelings, I complimented his wardrobe.

“Nice bright-yellow, Spandex leotard, dude.”

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mike egan's christmas card

awkward

Merry Christmas from The Egans

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