Sunday, December 21, 2014

A New Proof for God's Existence?

If an atheist "swears to God" he's telling the truth during a polygraph test, and the machine says he's not lying, does that mean that God exists?

Little Pentax Pre-Millenial Film Camera (Part 2)



















Little Pentax Pre-Millenial Film Camera (Part 1)

Lomography from two days ago.

I was walking around the section of Harrisburg above midtown, uptown, but not quite. It's a rather hard-hit part of the city, with many buildings falling in on themselves.

And yet there are gentrified neighborhoods (recently made so) right around these neighborhoods.

I'm not quite sure why that skateboard was up there in the sky. Maybe the person was squatting in the building. But it seems strange to advertise the fact if so.

The blankets left by the homeless person around the bench placed above the Susquehanna River for the vista were a sad sight. An abandoned nest. You wonder.












Is Evolutionary Success

Is evolutionary success more about pleasure or definition? I can't decide.

I Love the Two Sentence Horror Story Genre

Truly, they are adorable.

I think my favorite so far is:

"I begin tucking him into bed and he tells me, “Daddy check for monsters under my bed.” I look underneath for his amusement and see him, another him, under the bed, staring back at me quivering and whispering, “Daddy there’s somebody on my bed.”

The authors of these are rarely credited (probably because Reddit is the origin of the thread which started this literary meme, and real names are rarely used there). Maybe it didn't actually start it, but it definitely reinvigorated "the little genre that could."

I've seen the above credited to Juan J. Ruiz.






Hermit Crabs Making Art

Not bad.

A Contribution to the Very Short Horror Story Genre

THE DEVIL YOU WORK FOR



"Why on earth had I left my ringtone on?" I mentally grumbled, never opening my mouth, my eyes still sealed tight with sleep as I fumbled for my phone and pressed it to my ear. A clearly recorded voice began one of its monotonous mechanical pitches: "Please listen carefully, and do not hang up, as this will be the only call you will receive from us, and it is automated. The information contained in this message will enable you to save..."

This is where I snapped the phone shut. Right on the word "save." Telemarketers are relentless. I had been warned about the phone bots calling and trying to get consumers to switch from one evil gas company to another lately. Better the devil with the high charges you know than the one with all the hidden charges you don't (everyone who had made the mistake of switching had said).

It was then I noticed how cold it was. It was then I realized my memories of the previous night were so cloudy. I tried to put the pieces together through a scrim of consciousness. Where had I been? A club, drinking alone. There had been a tall, foreign stranger who approached me. Yes. He had bought me a drink and then began insulting me. It had turned out he had a serious grudge against the company for which I work, some of our overseas policies I had told the devil where to go. But then what? It was blurry. I had felt woozy. I had gone to the club's restroom and tried to force myself to throw up. I remember I began to swoon. He had appeared smiling in the doorway. Laughing! I remembered now, I was sure I had been drugged.

I opened my eyes for the first time. This was not where I had fallen asleep last night. The ceiling had wildly descended. It was not that far over my head!  I fumbled and found the flashlight app on my phone.  I was in some sort of rusty old fuel tank! Although I could not even stand up in this claustrophobic "room," I soon found where they had cut an opening in the oddly cylindrical vessel to make a door. My stomach nearly turned over. I saw the pile of dirt at the base of the door. I intuitively knew it had been placed there for a reason. "They" wanted me to see that pile of earth. That improvised door was welded shut. I noticed then how silent it was.

I live in a metropolis where you can always hear something in the distance: traffic, the shouts of people, jets going overhead, no matter where you were in the city. Now nothing. I knocked on the sides of my tiny prison in many places in rapid succession.. There was no hollow clang to answer me as I had hoped. There was no air on the other side of the thing. I knew then:  I had been buried alive. I went like a wild animal from corner to rounded corner of this metal cage looking for a possible air supply. There was none,

I heard the recorded message on playback in my head then, "Please listen carefully, and do not hang up, as this will be the ONLY call you will receive from us, and it is automated. The information contained in this message will enable you to save..." I knew then that I might have had a chance, had I listened to that message. The next word after "save" was not to have been "money." It was to have been "yourself." I looked at the phone's glowing face. It was warning me that it was time to feed it the nectar of energy which keeps it alive. And there was no reception. Of course, there wasn't. I was probably in the middle of a field out in the middle of nowhere. Well, under that field. Six feet or not, it was enough. And now I hated telemarketers more than ever.