Danielle’s Toilet Poem
created by the brilliant Ms. Yeung
“Who farted?” Miranda asked. “It stinks in here. Who?” she repeated. “Who? Who? I said that it stinks in here.”
“Who farted?” Nina asked. “It stinks in here.”
“Who farted?” Meg sniffed the air. “It stinks in here.”
“Wowee!” said Miranda’s friend. “You’re right! It really does stink in here.”
“I did it,” admitted Lawrence. “I’m sorry. I had a really big lunch.”
“Oh gross,” sighed Malcolm.
“Ew,” repeated Ms. Liao.
“Must have had beans,” Kira said kindly.
“Ms. Liao, can you smell that?” Miranda called out.
Ms. Liao remained silent, plugging her nose.
“Let’s punish him!” Nina called out. Nina was always quick to punish others.
“Let’s hang him out the window,” Miranda suggested, trying to be helpful but not really succeeding in doing so.
“We can all just forgive him,” Meg suggested.
“That’s too kind. He stank up this room and all our lives have now been shortened because of this gassy smell. Like, seriously.” Kira turned to Lawrence and glared at him. “Lawrence, you need to be punished!”
Merlin mumbled to himself about his lost worksheet.
“What are you saying back there? Be quiet!” Ms. Liao snapped. She was sooooooooooooooo mean.
TOOT! Onomen let out a bigger, stinkier fart than Lawrence. She always wanted to be NUMBER ONE.
Inspired by Kate Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour”
The boy was astonished. Three hours early for a flight; this was ridiculous! He had expressed his concern to his grandfather, who had arranged for the wait, that he would “die of boredom; an hour is an eternity, let alone three!”
His grandfather merely shrugged and replied: “if an hour is an Eternity then you have a lot of time on your hands. The time will pass before you know it.”
The boy was annoyed and looked up at the clock, checking his time left stuck in limbo. There was still an hour left in the terminal, the clock showing the time of 3:03. Looking at the timepiece the boy began to count the remaining moments: “53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, and 60.” The boy looked to his grandfather, attempting to figure out why his grandfather found his time in purgatory so exciting, but his grandfather was merely looking out the window, examining the outside. The boy followed his grandfather’s gaze, and surveyed the outside and watched the cars pass: a red one, a black one, a white one, and another black one. The boy looked back to the clock, and sighed at the sight of the distance between the hour hand and the 4 o’clock position.
The boy lay his chin upon the table before him, closing his eyes and listening to the clock. Clocks don’t really go “tick, tock,” he thought, more of an “ik, ock; is there a particular style of clock that goes “tick, tock”? The boy looked over at his grandfather, now immersed in a newspaper, and recalled the large grandfather clock that is in the main room of his grandfather’s home, its constant “docking” often being the only sound which permeated the otherwise still silence of the old man’s dwelling. Why, the boy started to question, are they called grandfather clocks anyway? The boy’s mind desperately attempted to solve the problem it had been presented: maybe it’s a tradition; some old men gathered together and decided to pass on giant clocks as heirlooms? With a few more moments of deliberation, the boy dismissed the thought as unlikely, his mind citing the unlikely nature of a large enough group of grandfathers having the funds to afford an expensive antique, especially before pensions, hundreds of years ago.
The boy, failing to find another reasonable explanation for the nomenclature of a particular set of clock, quickly grasped onto another topic. Hundreds of years ago, his thought began, when there weren’t many, if any, clocks, now were events arranged? The boy thought of the constant updating of availability with his school friends. Would one be able to, in the time before clocks, arrange any event that lasted less than several hours? The boy considered his knowledge of the time before clocks, recollecting the tales of medieval fantasy and the little they learned in school. His knowledge of events outside of the typical larger scale affairs were surprisingly limited, even considering his finite information; with this in mind, and a few moments of consideration, the boy decided that the cliché festivals of earlier eras were likely, in part, due to the lack of timepieces to arrange more precisely timed events.
The nearby wrinkling of paper distracted the boy from his musings, and, when the boy’s eyes opened, he was surprised to see his grandfather standing beside a folded newspaper, a hand on his luggage. One eternity was finished, the first of many.
Written by Alex Puddifoot
Inspired by Kate Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour”
It was Thanksgiving long weekend, and as always, Jeremy was traveling down south across the border to have dinner with his family from the United States of America. Unlike most extended family, Jeremy was actually excited. He loved meeting up with his amusing, dare I say interesting, family members from the south. Some of his family traveled all the way from Alabama and Louisiana to the northern state of Washington where Jeremy’s parents lived for the Thanksgiving feast. His aunt from Eufaula, Alabama, Miss Maxine, would always have had a sweater knitted for Jeremy to wear during the coming winter months, and his cousin, Tommy, from Slidell, Louisiana, every time, had to ask whether or not Jeremy had certain basic amenities available up north in Canada, such as cable or heat. Living in Canada, Jeremy only got the opportunity to hear the sound of his family’s southern drawl once in a blue moon, and he was excited. From the border lineup app that Jeremy had downloaded onto his phone, the border line was only supposedly ten minutes, which was good as he was in a rush. As he pulled up though, it was a much different story. Hundreds of cars piled up all the way from the border booth to where Jeremy sat still in his rumbling Toyota Tundra. As Jeremy slowly gazed upwards, he saw a large digital sign: BORDER WAIT: 1 HOUR.
At this rate, Jeremy would most definitely be late, and the food he brought with him would get cold. This was a disaster. He proceeded to pull out his phone to play some stupid game, maybe Candy Crush, or Angry Birds, but as he opened his phone, he noticed that his battery was at one percent. It was only minutes from death. Jeremy quickly sifted through his glove box looking for his charger to no avail. Now this was a big problem. See, our fellow Jeremy is a millennial, and his frail mind would not last long, definitely not an hour, sitting in a car with no distractions from reality. Jeremy panicked. Sweat dripped from his face; he started to feel claustrophobic as he was surrounded by other cars. As he clenched the steering wheel with white knuckles and his thumbs tapping, and twiddling, Jeremy looked over to his dashboard clock. It must have been at least half an hour. Three minutes had passed since Jeremy arrived at the border. This was going to be a long wait. Roughly twenty minutes in, Jeremy started humming a tune and started singing lyrics that represented his pain:
“One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever doooooo… Two can be as bad as one, it’s the loneliest number since the number one!”
As he sang to himself, he thought to himself, Who was it that did that song again?
Surely if his phone was not dead, Jeremy would be able to Shazam this, or maybe Imdb – did Imdb do songs as well? Either way, this would tear Jeremy apart until he was able to turn his phone back on. As Jeremy waited for another forty minutes, reciting the same song over and over, he noticed that he was close to the border. This was his moment, he had been waiting for what felt like eternity, and he was ready. He was ready to enter the USA. As he pulled up, the border guard turned to Jeremy.
Written by Jacob Chapman