When represented on a flat surface, a right angle can appear acute or oblique.

When represented on a flat surface, a right angle can appear acute or oblique.

It was inexplicable that two latino, hipster twenty-somethings from East Los Angeles would talk like 85-year-old Jewish retirees from Queens, yet that was how it was.

"Pull ovah and ask fuh direck-shuns," shouted Isabel.

"I know where I'm going!" Ricky replied with a Yiddish accent that seemed to come from nowhere. "You always do this! You always want to undermine my AUTHORITY!"

He exclaimed very loudly, mostly because he was hard of hearing and couldn't monitor his own pitch. Isabel was silent for a second, silently mouthing words to herself. Then, as if in an afterthought, she said, "You just...

Ceci n'est pas un garçon.

She opened the envelope and screamed. Then she opened the next envelope, screamed, set it down. Then the next, screamed, set it down. Next, screamed, down. Next, screamed, down.

A strange ritual. Letting out some kind of pent up anger and frustration. She had drawn a crowd, as one letter after another would be opened, followed by a scream, then the laying down of the envelope. For hours on end she did exactly the same thing. Open, scream, down. Soon, the crowd had grown quite large. The police arrived, and stood for a few minutes, watching this bizarre ritual. One...

Public Service Announcement (this has no relation to the prompt): When Hemingway (I think, but it doesn't really matter) said, "Write what you know," it was a critique of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who had said, "Write what you don't know." In other words, it would be like me saying, "You are therefore you think." It may or may not be true, but it was a critique of an idea that had been set in stone and codified. Codifying that idea, in turn, defeats the purpose.

To be more succinct, When I hear, "Write what you know," I reach for my...

The lamp wouldn't turn on. He thought it might be the bulb, so he unscrewed it and got a sixty volt shock that made his whole body shake until he dropped the lamp. He wouldn't do that again.

The lamp wouldn't turn on. Off, yes. around, yes. But on, absolutely not. No matter how many times he flipped the switch, no matter how many times he prodded it, shook it, swung it over his head, he could not get it to turn on. He decided to coax it. First he offered it things that humans like: chocolate, love and affection, sex. The lamp did not budge. Then he offered it things that his cat liked: mackerel, catnip, a laser. Nothing. He tried reasoning with it, but the lamp was dead to his entreaties. Look, he explained, you staying...

The voyage was all fun and games until the iceberg came.

Nobody had invited the iceberg, and it seemed to show up out of nowhere. One moment, Rockwell was painting the dog on the banister, the next, the iceberg was full frame in the painting, like someone who hasn't noticed that you're taking a group photo and decides to walk right in front of the camera.

There was no use reasoning with it. It was obstinate, unmoving, rather dull to boot. At dinner that night, the usual good cheer in the ballroom had evaporated. Everyone was silent. The old colonel...

Mannequin legs hanging from the wall. Nailed by the heels, they create the effect of being suspended in space. I don't know why I did it, but somehow, they comfort me being there, detached from all body and context, the pink ballet shoes seamlessly blending into the leggings and the beige wall. This is my world, this is the inside of my mind - a single flat line, drab, unstimulating. Seeing more vibrant colors, seeing the artificiality of "beauty," seeing a well-crafted world - nothing makes me more angry. My nothing is a word unto itself.

Ben and Jessica are...