A Chain-Letter Tale

I am not a humor writer.  I'm just not.  My sense of humor is too fleeting and wry for an entire story, and while I like Edgar Allen Poe, I'm not macabre enough for this story, either.  Still, I get tired of chain letters.  They bother me.  I find them offensive.  As punishment to all of you who forward chain letters, you must now read my story.  Abandon hope, all ye who read from here.

"A Chain-Letter Tale"

Or

"Why You Should Always Check Food Labels"

By: Anna Watkin

-888-

Haley Alastair sat at her computer one dark, stormy night, reading her email. As usual, her inbox contained enough spam to feed China and repair the Great Wall all in one go. With the speed and fluidity of one well practiced in the art of deletion, Haley cleaned her account of the junk.

One email caught her eye, however. It was from her friend Lawrence, who was a legend in chain mail circles. No one could approach Lawrence in his ability to create and send chain mail. Haley smiled to herself and rolled her eyes. Someday, Lawrence would learn. Right now, though, she needed a laugh, so she opened the letter. "Somethin good better happen a 10:42 Body: Body: Body: this is by FARRRRRRR the nastiest thing I have ever read...gross..uhhhhhh yuck ...scroll down plzz," the email proclaimed. Haley shrugged to herself and scrolled down. After the letter urged her several times to continue scrolling, Haley reached the bottom. It read:

"MY NAME IS MICHELLE LOUIS
I AM 15 YEARS OLD
WITH MASSIVE LICE
AND A TIGHT PURPLE SWEATER.
I HAVE NO LEFT FOOT OR EARS.
I AM DEAD.
IF U DO NOT RESEND THIS IN THE NEXT 5 MIN.,
I WILL APPEAR TONIGHT BY YOUR BED
WITH A fING CAN OPENER AND WILL MAKE YOU HELP ME
THIS IS NO JOKE
SOMETHING GOOD WILL HAPPEN TO U TONIGHT AT 10:42. SOMEONE WILL CALL U
OR TALK TO U ON THE INTERNET
REPOST THIS WITH THE TITLE:
EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW."

Haley sat for several seconds, wondering what a "fing can opener" was. Then she thought about correcting the letters grammar and sending it back to Lawrence, but he probably wouldn't notice to change. She glanced at the clock. It read ten forty-five. The magic moment for this letter was past, anyway. Haley deleted the email, shut down her computer, and went to bed.

888

The clock read eleven forty-six when Haley woke. She didn't know why, but she suddenly felt certain that she wasn't alone. She also felt very tired. If some sort of deranged murderer were standing beside her bed, he would do well to go ahead and leave. She wasn't in the mood to deal with that sort of thing.

Haley clicked her bedside lamp on and sat up. Standing at her bedside was a girl about fifteen years old. She wore a purple sweater that might have been made of spandex and appeared to be infested with mutated fleas. The girl's face was a pale oval with burning black eyes, and she had long black hair to cover her missing ears. She was also leaning to her left side, as though her left leg was shorter than her right. Haley thought that she might be dead. Then the girl at her bedside took a deep breath. Haley upgraded the girl's status to not-quite-dead.

"Are you Michelle Louis?" Haley finally asked.

The girl nodded.

"How interesting," said Haley.

Michelle nodded again. Then she held up a can opener. "You will help me," she rasped.

"I'd rather not," said Haley. "You see, I'm very tired. I have to go school tomorrow. If you could come back around three-thirty tomorrow afternoon, though, I'd be happy to assist you."

"You will help me," Michelle rasped again, holding out the can opener to Haley.

Haley shook her head. "No, I'm afraid that I cannot help you at this point in time. Now, please see yourself out of my house. It's not good manners to just come waltzing in, you know."

"You will help me," Michelle rasped once more, as near a shout as she could.

Haley sighed. "Oh, very well. What must I help you with?"

Michelle dropped the can opener on the bed and pulled out a can of beanie-weenies. "Open," Michelle said.

"Say the magic word," said Haley. Michelle's eyes flashed and she began to murmur in soft Latin. The almost-dead girls hair stood straight up, exposing her earless head. "Most impressive," yawned Haley, "but I meant please."

"Amabo te," replied Michelle.

"Good enough, I guess," said Haley. She set the can opener on the can of beanie-weenies and gave the device a few twists. "Try not to make a habit of this." Haley turned off her light and went to sleep.

Michelle the not-quite-dead took her beanie-weenies and left. Little did she know, the can of beanie-weenies was close to five years old and long since spoiled. Still, Michelle ate every beanie and every weenie despite their rancid taste and contracted a terrible case of botulism. Then Michelle the not-quite-dead became Michelle the very-much-dead. And she never interrupted anyone's REM cycle again.

The End.

It always seems harder to go back to school after a long weekend.  I don't know why.  I have to talk to my counselor about the PSAT tomorrow.  I really hope they just say, "Oh, sure, you can take it.  Do you have your twelve dollars?"  At which point, I will say, "Yeah, here it is."  That would be the easy way.  I don't expect it.

I went to Evansville this weekend to visit my grandmother and cousins.  We went to a really good steak resturant, and I was accosted by my aunt with college advice.  She thinks I should go to an Ivy League school.    I would rather not graduate with twenty years worth of debt.  Really, all I want is a summer writing program.  Real writing, that is, not the drival known as journalism.  Washington University in St. Louis had an interesting program, but the application process is rather involved.  We'll just see.

I'm a bit torn about what to do for my fall break, now.  Swimming was the original plan, and I don't know how the "ninty percent" thing is being tallied.  Now that I have three options to get out of Franklin, I'm not sure it matters.  One of my youth group leaders is thinking about taking the high school girls to Chicago, which would be awesome.  I also might visit my cousin at Notre Dame and attend a few classes.  I could follow the English and Philosophy classes, I think, but my cousin is a pre-med student.  Her biology classes might well cause my head to explode.  My parents are thinking about going to the Gatlinberg, as well.  No idea what I'm going to do.  Oh well. 

Swimming blues and stop sign rants

I am tired.  Most of you could probably guess that, everyone is tired, but I'll say it anyway.  Nothing of interest has happened the past few days.  The Cubs coughed up another game tonight, go figure.  I also saw several instances of very bad driving today.  Just a reminder to all: We take turns at stop signs.  That means that you don't sneak in your right turn right after the person in front of you goes.  You wait.  I know that the three seconds it takes me to cross the intersection are just killing you, but try to follow the rules.  Believe me, you don't want the US roads to be like the DR roads, so just do what would make your driver's ed teacher proud.  It's for the good of all. 

It's kinda bad that I'm dreading swim practice every day after less than a week, but I am.  That odd stroke is killing me; I just can't do it.  And I'm not even going in to the morning practices.  I would be burnt out by December.  Swimming is also taking a serious chunk out of my writing time.  That makes me sad.  I like to write.  I also like my guitar, but now it's sitting in the corner gathering dust because I have no spare time.

Clearly, there is only one way to fix these problems (one way each, that is.  Too tired to make that sentence work on its own.): 

1) Idiots should not be allowed to drive.  How do we define an idiot, you ask?  Take the person in question to a busy four-way stop.  Then you will know.

2) School should be cut to four hours a day.  In the event that this is not possible, more hours must be added to the day.  Up it to twenty-six.  Everyone will be happier. 

Currently Listening Hit Parade By Audio Adrenaline Might Good Leader see related

Remember this day

My dear friends, today is the day you shall forever remember as the day that Neifi Perez was traded from the Cubs.  Yes, at long last, Cubs fans will no longer be tormented by Dusty Baker's idiotic late inning double switches, or any other of his foolish "playing the percentages" calls.  Or, at least, until the Cubs reacquire Enrique Wilson. So rejoice, oh Chicago.  The tool of your enemy has gone to the far away land of Detroit.  All may be well. 

In other notes, swimming started today.  I am in pain.  I can say no more.

Bleh

Today just wasn't much fun.  More precisely, it was less fun than usual.  Apart from the lateness of the bus, I was sick from third block on.  I actually thought I was going to black out when I left the Latin classroom to go to the bathroom.  My vision got really dark, I couldn't hear (I felt like my ears were full of water), and I walked into the wall a couple times.  After that, I decided I should probably go to the nurse.  My dad picked me up from school and I feel better now, but it was really weird. 

I would have finished my math homework, too, if it hadn't been for that.  Grr.