Rumble in the Park

6 a.m., Midtown. The sun rises twice over the City; once over the boroughs across the river, and again over the skyline. The morning bustle begins today just as it does everyday. People rise from their slumber, the morning paper sounds a “ka-thunk” on doorsteps, and the low roar of the traffic gently wafts upward from the asphalt. The morning’s joggers and walkers filter into the Park. Underfoot is the reassuring “pitter-patter” of rubber on pavement. Out of their mouths are the steady, rhythmic pulsations of breaths. All around, the Park comes to life as the sun kisses the treetops.

An old man sat on a park bench. He carried with him a bag of stale bread. Every day for the last 53 years, this man has sat on the same bench with a bag of stale bread. Every day he breaks off small morsels of bread and tosses them to the Pigeons and Squirrels. The old man hasn’t shown up for three days. Where could he be? But more importantly, who would bring the stale bread?

For three days, the Pigeons and Squirrels have congregated in front of the park bench every morning, waiting for the old man who never comes anymore. But today, a middle-aged businessman sits down on the bench. He has a newspaper and a bag of peanuts. He opens the newspaper and begins to work the crossword puzzle, cracking and eating peanuts all the while. The Pigeons and Squirrels inch closer, hoping the businessman will notice them. The man checks his watch, folds his newspaper, and leaves with the bag of peanuts. The Pigeons and Squirrels try to follow him, but he disappears into the underground train station.

6 a.m., Midtown. This day begins just as it did yesterday. The businessman returns to the park bench with a bag of peanuts and a newspaper, and just like yesterday, he works the crossword puzzle while cracking and eating peanuts. But today, the persistence of the Pigeons and Squirrels finally pay off. He tosses a few peanuts into the center of the crowd. Chaos ensues. “Food!” they seem to cry. Both the Pigeons and the Squirrels make a mad dash for the peanuts, but much to the dismay of the Pigeons, none of their beaks can penetrate the shell to retrieve the sweet innards of the precious nut. Seeing this, two Squirrels swoop in, grabbing the peanuts and running into the nearby shrubs. Several other Squirrels follow. Dejected, the Pigeons move away from the bench, seeking a morsel they can partake in.

The same story plays out for several days. The Pigeons rapidly build up a hate for the Squirrels. “Those dirty mammals!” they seem to say. “Don’t they know how to share? We have cohabitated this Park together, peacefully, for generations upon generations, and this is how they treat us?”

In the morning, the businessman doesn’t come, but the Squirrels gather in front of the bench anyway. Seeing this, the Pigeons gather their ranks and approach the Squirrels. The leader of the Pigeons, Alpha Pigeon, steps forward toward the Squirrels. The squirrel leader, Alpha Squirrel, steps forward to meet him in the center with their respective gangs looking on from behind.

“So,” Alpha Pigeon seems to taunt, “looks like your little buddy-buddy didn’t show today with his...” Alpha Pigeon leans in and squints at Alpha Squirrel. “…peanuts.”

“What’s it to you?” Alpha Squirrel seems to retort, advancing on Alpha Pigeon. The other Pigeons meet Alpha Squirrel’s advance with a step forward, but Alpha Pigeon raises his wing, calling off their advance. The two size each other up, debating within themselves whether their own gang could take the other. Realizing the stalemate, Alpha Pigeon steps back. “Come on guys, let’s leave these jokers to their….” Alpha Pigeon again leans toward Alpha Squirrel. “…peanuts.” The Pigeons waddle off together to another park bench down the path, making obscene gestures at the Squirrels and muttering insults under their breaths.

Later that day, a mother and her young son arrive at the Park with a small loaf of bread. They sit down on a park bench near the Pigeons. The Pigeons, seeing the bread, gather around the mother and son. She hands a small chunk of bread to the boy, and he tosses it into the crowd of Pigeons. The boy finds great delight in watching the birds run after the bread, nudging each other out of the way to get it.

From down the path, Alpha Squirrel observes the goings-on. “Look at that! They got food over there, while we starve over here! Come on guys; let’s go get us some food!”

Hearing the scampering of claws and the squeaking of the approaching gang, Alpha Pigeon drops his bread and rallies the troops. “Well, look-ee here!” The two gangs meet head to head in the middle of the path. Fearing what might happen between the two rivals, the mother scoops up her son and scurries off, leaving the bread.

“Back off, Tree Rat! This is our turf! You got your peanuts over there; we got our bread over here! Go back to your side of the park, and no one gets hurt.”

“Yeah, Bird Brain, well, we decided we’re gonna take your bread, and you’re gonna like it!”

“You’ll have to get through us first!” The Pigeons tighten their ranks, defending the loaf of bread resting peacefully on the park bench. The Squirrels respond by tightening their ranks as well, preparing for a battle.

Alpha Squirrel drops down, ready to pounce. “Get ‘em, boys!”

He leaps on top of Alpha Pigeon and they begin a fierce hand-to-hand battle. The rest of the squirrels rush their Pigeon counterparts. Feathers and fur fly, and the furious cooing and squeaking can be heard from the other side of the Park.

Suddenly, the Groundskeeper rushes in with a rake. “Alright, boys! Break it up! Break it up!” He scatters the crowd by banging the rake on the pavement. “Look, there’s plenty of food for everyone! What’s gotten into you guys? You used to be best buds! And look at you now, fighting over a crummy loaf of bread! I don’t want to catch you fighting in this Park again! If you got problems with each other, you take it outside. Don’t you be causing a disturbance in my park!”

Alpha Squirrel and Alpha Pigeon brush the dust off themselves while their respective gangs sort themselves out. Alpha Squirrel leers at Alpha Pigeon, “This ain’t over, buddy….” And with that, the Squirrels scamper away to the other side of the Park.

The Watchman

What say you, friend or foe?
Many like you I've seen,
Many like you have been
Torn apart from head to toe!
Brave are you to go
And proclaim that you're clean
When in truth you're obscene!
Your falsity I aim to show.
My eye examines all,
Nothing escapes its gaze,
I watch from atop the keep.
You think you have the gall
My doorstep to grace!
Away, I say, back to the deep!

Your face, your voice, they ring a bell.
Well with me your spirit rests.
Though you seem to pass all my tests,
I know that here you don't dwell.
Who are you? Why are you here, do tell!
Though I want to grant your requests,
My inner soul protests,
For it feels your intents aren't well.
Hence, passage I deny you,
Until further exam can confirm
That this gift contains no suprise.
To make you talk, there's nothing I won't do.
As I watch you writhe and squirm,
I conclude you tell nothing but lies.

My life is spent keeping the peace,
Keeping the hordes at bay,
And letting friends stay,
Until the battle will cease.
I am the watchman, the police,
I walk the walls day after day.
My duty calls me to take no holiday,
So I'm bound to my post without release.
I keep the watch, tireless, without sleep,
And forever will I protect
The city I keep watch for.
My duty to protect the sheep
Yields no visitor unchecked.
This is business as usual. This... is war.

Ode to Computing Machinery

Little microchip,
Why must you be so stubborn?
I just want some peace.

Little microchip,
Why must you give me errors?
I want to go home.

Little microchip,
Why must you torment me so?
That bit should be '1'.

Source code compiler,
Isn't that valid syntax?
The book says it is.

Source code compiler,
What error is on that line?
I see no error.

Source code compiler,
Churning away on my code,
Finally, it works!

Little puffs of smoke
Gently rising up and up.
I think this one's dead.

Magic Smoke escaped,
The lights don't light anymore.
This one's dead for sure.

Little microchip,
You taunted me to the end.
You're history. Ciao.

The Operator

Back in the olden days, when computers were complicated pieces of raw metal and hundreds of miles of wire, a specially trained breed of engineer was appointed the task of running and maintaining the steel behemoths. These men were the Operators.

One member of the Fellowship of the Operators is Bob. In his youth, Bob was a bright-eyed, extremely intellegent lad, excited about life. Born the middle child of a middle-class family in Middle America, his aspirations lay in the bustling urban centers. He dreamed of one day joining the ranks of the American Urbanite. He always excelled in the arts, mathematics and sciences, and when it came time, he chose a field of study that would take him out of his drab, small town and into the sparkling metropolis. He went to University to study the emerging field of computer engineering, and found himself as a Computer Operator for a large New York City corporation. At last, he had made it to the Big City, and he was doing what he enjoyed.

From that time on, Bob's life would change forever, and not necessarily for the better. In his early days, he showed promise as a very competent and proficient Operator. But as the company grew, the demands placed on him grew. He was spending more and more time in the computer room, and less and less time out amongst the Urbanites he so wanted to be. Steadily the company grew, and steadily his work overwhelmed him.

No one has seen Bob in at least twenty years. Company payroll records show he is still employed, still receiving paychecks, and still cashing them. His office door is always open, leading into a pitch-black office, save a small lamp illuminating only his desk, hovering gently over a stack of open manuals. The coffee is always hot.

Some say he lives in the computer room, amid the whirring machinery, watching the bits and bytes flying across the wires. Some say he lives in the wiring closet, energized by the raw power pulsing through the jungle of wires and cables. Some say that the demands placed on him by his managers have caused many a sleepless night catering to their whims, and so he is eternally bound to the Operator terminal, figuratively and literally. Some say he's gone insane, obsessively running back and forth between the dozens of panels and tape reels and cabinets, trying desparately to keep the systems running.

Still others, the ones who have been around the company long enough, maintain that Bob is still alive, shuffling between the computer room and his office in the wee hours of the night, careful not to run into the People of the Day. The overnight janitors sometimes report a shadowy figure lurking in the maze of halls around the computer room, seeing only silhouettes of the remnants of what was once a man, hunched over, holding out deformed hands, mumbling to himself, and sometimes carrying a steaming cup of coffee.

The ancient mainframe systems have never crashed since they first came online, thanks to the unseen efforts of The Operator. Some speculate Bob will remain a permanent fixture of the computer room, living on as a spirit, watching over the systems. Some believe Bob had passed away a number of years ago, but his mind and body, without soul, continue to monitor the machines. On the calmest of nights, in the stark-white halls surrounding the computer room, just beneath the whirring of the computers, you can hear feet shuffling and coffee being slurped. If you're lucky, you'll see the hunched shadow of Bob, The Operator.

Is This On?

So this is going to be my Short Story Blog. So at some point, I should probably post a short story.