It’s All In The Name
They had been married just over a year and they both had pretty much had been bobbing along in their lives without incident.
Along came a day where most wives look forward too, and that was giving her husband extremely good news.
"Bob, I have something really important to tell you."
Bob, who was practicing bobbing for apples in a tub of water for a Halloween contest coming up, dried off his face saying,"Bee, you sound serious, is everything okay? Is there a problem?"
"No, no problem, Bob, but you are about to be a daddy!
Well, needless to say, both were overjoyed at the prospect of a little girl or boy rounding out their lives and no longet just husband and wife but now, full-fledged parents. Mommy and Daddy.
"Bob, I've decided what the baby's names would be; either boy or girl."
"Sounds good to me Bee. What are they?"
"Bobbie if a girl, or Bobby, if a boy."
"Sounds good to me."
And that night, both Mr. and Mrs. Bobalouie slept with smiles on their faces and the happiest parentss in town.
The Tales of Beedle the Bob
Instead of Hermione Jean Granger getting The Tales of Beedle the Bard, she got The Tales of Beedle the Bob.
There once was a wobble named Bobble. He and his brother Bibble were rolling through town on a simmering, summer Saturday when they ran into Tribble and Trobble. Wobbles didn't get along with wibbles, but each always came in pairs, and each was as much a match for their own siblings as they were (in an opposite way) to their foes.
So it was that they fought, not in any way you might think fighting should go: they sort of flobbled into one another until they tired of the effort, but they still kept at it because it was no coincidence that Bibble and Bobble were in town this day, for they had heard that Tribble and Trobble would be here, and the wibbles had called the wobbles weak. And here they were to prove them wrong, and here the wibbles were knowing they must back their words with force.
They fought into the night and through it. When dawn came they had changed. Not the wibbles, for they believed they were right because the wobbles had given up. But giving up is a matter of perspective, and the wobbles had merely realized that they did not need to fight to win this fight. They grew up. The wobbles became wobs: Bibble became Bib, and Bobble became Bob.
bits and bobs
she collected bits and bobs;
turned a discarded dream
into a story,
turned a lost screw
into a quest,
healing from broken bottles.
she gave the inanimate
because she had none
to claim as her own.
she wandered the streets
picking up odds and ends
head bobbing to some
that she'd fade away,
maybe hoping that
she'd give these lost objects purpose,
hoping that one day,
she'd find something
to give her purpose.
The Museum of Discarded Children’s Souls
No one knows where we are. We’re miserably lost.
Amidst the darkness, my mom spots a pinprick of light up ahead.
Driving along the country road, falling snow envelops us like a cocoon, it floats like sprinkled stardust in the milky luminosity of our headlights.
“Up there,” cries my mom, “it looks like a little cottage. Don’t you agree, Isabella?”
“Yeah,” I mumble, noticing that she doesn’t ask my dad his opinion. In fact, she’s barely spoken to him during our trip. Or attempted trip, I never thought we’d get lost on the way to New Hampshire in the middle of December to visit my grandma. Lost on the way to granny’s house? Isn’t that straight out of some gory fairytale? And now a cottage to boot? What the hell?
But here it sits in front of our car, beckoning it seems, and curiosity prances through our minds.
The epitome of an English cottage, it sports a cherry-red door, fairy lights under the soffits, and creeping ivy winding along the stone facade. The light dusting of snow sparkling on the roof gives the illusion of sugar-frosting on a cake. Seriously?
As we approach on foot however, suddenly, the mood changes. I glimpse shadowy figures lurking in corners of the porch, and shudder as a chill traces my spine. The flapping of ravens’ wings startles me. Birds of oily black are perched atop two narrow, but lofty signs made of granite with ‘The Museum of Discarded Children’s Souls’ etched into them. They stand on either side of the door like knights in armor in front of a medieval castle. It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever come across in all my seventeen years.
My dad says, “Let’s knock and ask for directions to Concord.”
The door is opened by a lady wearing an apron tied around her waist smeared with fudge, nutmeg, and cinnamon, scents so inviting I crave tasting them.
“Welcome,” she says, “I’ve just taken the gingerbread cookie cups and fudge caramel brownies out of the oven, come in.”
Amidst the yummy baking smells, I detect something else in the air… a cloying waft of roses. It’s not an entirely unpleasant aroma, but it does strike me as being out of place somehow.
Once inside, although I’m grateful for the warmth, I suddenly freeze. I can’t believe the sight before my eyes. The things I see hanging suspended from the ceiling.
Hundreds of massive multicolored dollhouses and hollowed out spaceships, the size of a smart car, dangle from thick chains. Various items are showcased in them like trophies in a glass cabinet.
I drift from one dollhouse to the next, one rocket ship to another, looking at the pieces lodged within their shells, studying them like my life depends on knowing why they’re there.
“In this house,” the lady narrates, “we have one of our more evocative pieces, these little yellow rubber boots and rain jacket belonged to Jenna Wade, just five years old when her daddy left. See this here, next to the rainy-day things Jenna loved? It’s a brick of cocaine. Her dad liked to party more than he loved her, you see?”
I don’t really see, so I try shaking my head but something’s not right with my body. I’m a puppet being manipulated by someone pulling my invisible strings.
“Over here,” the lady continues, and I follow her, my feet floating on air like a ghostly being, “we have a football and helmet that belonged to Jonathan Wilson who was only eleven when he lost his father to these types of abominations.” She points to a giant photo of a sleazy woman holding a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Whiskey. She looks like a prostitute.
“Jonathan prayed that his dad would come to his football games to see him score a touchdown. He wanted his dad to be proud of him, but it was not to be. Jonathan’s mom donated these to us just a year after he was incarcerated. Poor kid hit rock bottom after struggling with depression. He yearned for his father so much. They all do, you know?”
We trail behind her like those kids in their trance-induced state, filing behind the Pied Piper, to other exhibits.
A slab of sidewalk nestled in the living room of a blue and purple dollhouse, displays a medley of colorful chalk drawings, rainbows of hues, assortments of shapes. Next to the concrete is a picture of a ranch with a mansion, horse stables, tennis courts and an Olympic-sized swimming pool.
“This was donated by thirteen-year-old Courtney’s dad whose wife, and mother of his only daughter, left them for a rich sugar daddy. Courtney loved art. But she began using drugs shortly after her mom ditched her, started sneaking out, drinking, and her
dad felt helpless. It was tragic. She’s in rehab but, alas, not doing well.”
I start to cry.
I’ve heard the venomous hiss of the word divorce whispered from my parents’ lips.
But despite the hurt stinging my heart and soul, like lemon juice on cuts, the tears I’ve shed are more from embarrassment and jealousy. I’m envious of anyone whose parents are together, and I don’t even care how selfish that sounds.
Carsten and I truly love each other. And though we’re both young, high school sweethearts can end up happily married. They can have the proverbial white picket fence. Carsten’s parents are proof, they’re committed to stay together until death do them part. I want that too. Both sets of parents at our wedding and celebrating the births of our children. I don’t want to spend one Christmas at my mom’s and another at my dad’s. And have my kids call some stranger Grandpa Bob or Grandma Shirley– whatever dumbass my mom decides to fall for, or witch my dad replaces my mom with. If they split, I’ll die missing them both. And to hell with everyone else’s bullshit-take on how blended families can work wonderfully. There’s no Brady Bunch in this cruel world.
My sobs echo, like voices inside a rocky canyon, throughout the museum.
“Come, Isabella, dry your eyes. Let’s have your father look at this particular display,” the lady commands.
Within the biggest dollhouse yet, I spot a pair of pink ballet slippers, a bit worn but still exquisite. Then I gasp. They are mine. I can tell by the ink stain where I once dropped my calligraphy pen when I was hurriedly packing up my school things after dance class.
“What on earth…?” My mom’s voice comes out strangled.
Next to the shoes, there’s a picture of Lorraine. It’s her, I’d recognize that face anywhere.
“This young lady didn’t survive her dad’s abandonment, she was destroyed by the selfish way he discarded her for another family. Poor devastated Isabella died by her own hand. All because of this…” the lady sneers, tapping her fingernail on the photo of Lorraine, “…homewrecker.”
In a sudden moment of rage, she reaches into the dollhouse, grabs the polaroid, and rips it into tiny pieces.
She screams “But he didn’t say no to being seduced by her mom’s best friend. Did he?
No. Instead, he shattered a family for horrid, backstabbing, phony Lorraine. And now beautiful, young Isabella lies buried in the cemetery overlooking the valley.”
Raking her nails down her face, drawing blood, she shrieks “Her mom, weeping rivers of tears each and every day, brings pink roses to her grave. I can smell those roses now, can’t you?”
Life of Bob
He was a young man in his early 20's who was trying to figure out his life. He had been a somewhat typical high school underachiever who liked to party and have fun, but never showed interest in anything adult-like. College had been uninteresting to him and as a result he washed out early. Having no direction in life, he decided to take a job as a phlebotomist in a hospital to explore his interest in the world of medicine as he thought of himself as a caring soul, a person with compassion, so maybe by providing healthcare to the injured or sick might inspire him into an occupation.
From the start he knew the phlebotomist gig wasn't working. First, he had to wake up at 4:30AM it get to work which didn't fit his social life. Secondly, he wasn't good at sticking needles in peoples arms as we never performed well under pressure. And the pressure of having those he was sticking with a sharp metal instrument, watching and feeling, was too much for him to handle.
On one of his last days as an unsuccessful phlebotomist trainee, he was in a patients room accompanying his trainer who was, as usual, doing all the work. The patient was an older African American woman lying in bed with her white sheet and blanket pulled all the way to her chin and family spread all around the room. As his trainer prepared to draw blood, he, using his bedside mannerism that he was actually to this point feeling quite confident in, asked her, "mam, how are you doing today?"
She replied, "I'm okay but quite sick."
Seeing an opportunity to showcase his skills for his trainer, he asked, "Can I tell you a joke to cheer you up?"
She replied slowly, much like you'd expect a sick older person to reply, "sure."
He started his joke with,"What do you call a cow with no legs?"
She quietly replied, "Oh, I don't know."
His punchline was right on time, "ground beef."
The entire family, his trainer, the sick woman, all chuckled out loud sending waves of pride down his body. As the sound of chuckles quickly subsided, she said, "that is like me, you see, I just had my leg amputated."
Today, Bob Yelley is in his 50's and has a moderately unsuccessful career as an unknown professional humorist.
Evelyn, Bob, and the Enchanted Forest.
Once there was a young girl named Evelyn. She was 14-years-old living in a dusty and old abandoned library. It had tall, glass windows on two sides of the main room and tall bookshelves on every other wall. The books were old and dusty. Some broken with cracked spines. She’d been living since she was 10, but she didn't touch one of the books. She had moved in here with her family because of robbery. They had been completely robbed in every house they had lived in previously, so they gave up hope and moved far, far away. Their only hope was this library, they loved it, and Evelyn misses them everyday. They had died on a mission for food, attacked by bears. It never bothered her much thought, all she needed was food, clothes, and this library.She loved the style the library represented. The only light they had was the windows and vines that draped every wall.
On a warm, sunny, fall day. Evelyn woke up in a great mood. She felt adventurous. So she leaped out of bed and got dressed in a long, sage green, silk dress that reached down to her ankles. The dress had a sage laced sleeve and was a little torn up, since it was her favorite color of silk dress she owned. She owned many. Her mom made them for her when she was very little to wear when she was older. Now they were all she ever wore, the only thing her mom had left her with. Her mom was her best friend. She never left her side and her mom always helped her during rough times. So she made a point to wear a silk dress everyday.
After she got dressed, she grabbed her small wooden basket and headed out the old stone back door and got breakfast. She pulled some blackberries, cherries, and raspberries. As she grabbed them, she heard a noise in the bush on the other side of her. She jumped and turned around and looked at the bush with confusion. With curiosity, she tiptoed over to the bush. Stepping carefully on each stepping stone. When she approached the bush, it rattled again. With shook, she jumped back. Pushing her long, brown hair behind her ear, she knelt down to get a closer look at the bush. She gasped. A small squirrel jumped out of the bush. “Oh my god! You scared me!” Evelyn said, she put her hand to her chest and laughed to herself. I don’t know what I was thinking, I knew it was probably just a squirrel...but you never know what you could find in these woods. Evelyn thought to herself while looking around at the trees around that tower above her, one hand still placed against her chest, the other carrying her basket of berries. Then she felt a hand slowly settle on her left shoulder. In shock, she didn't move. She just stood there. Looking straight ahead. She slowly turns her head. And soon comes face to face with a tall, pale man that looked about the same age as her. They locked eyes. He looked familiar. But Evelyn had never spoken to him.
He dragged his hand down from her shoulder, slowly running his cold fingers lightly down her arm and meeting her hand. He grips it tightly. Evelyn looks down at both of their hands but he takes his other hand and places it under her chin and lifts it up so their eyes lock again. “Shhhh” He said in a deep voice. Evelyn just nods her head. He didn’t seem like he’d hurt anyone or cause any harm but Evelyn always had to think of the worst to keep safe. But she trusted him. “Follow me.” She whispers while taking his hand and walking away.
She steps inside the library, still hanging on to the mysterious man’s hand. When she turns around to shut the door behind them, he gives Evelyn a strange look. He seems worried Evelyn thought to herself.
“Okay, now that we're alone. Who are you?!” She exclaims. You can hear it echo off of every wall around them. “I'm Bob. Ive lived in this forest on my own for years. And I've never seen you around here, are you new?” Bob said in a curious voice
“No, I’m 14 and I’ve lived here since I was 10 years old.” Evelyn replied. She was confused. Where did this boy come from? Why hasn’t she seen him before? “I’ve lived here since I was eight and I’m 15 now.” Bob said. “My home just recently got burnt down. This place is pretty nice though.”
“You can stay here with me. It is pretty nice and I have plenty of room. No one knows this library is here. So trust me, no one will know you’re here with me.” Evelyn said. She just didn’t know what she was gettin herself into. Bob accepted the offer and Evelyn helped him settle in. Luckly, he already had everything he had left after his house had burnt down.
It was a sunny, autumn morning. A few days had passed since Bob started living with Evelyn. And Evelyn had just woken up and got dressed so she could make Bob breakfast in bed. So she dressed in a silk, blue colored dress. She then slid a bandana over her hair as she stepped in front of her gold, cracked mirror. Yes, it may have been broken but Evelyn always believed it held good luck instead of bad luck. She did a couple spins to make sure the dress looked okay on her. It did so she smiled at herself and slowly stepped away. Right when she walks out the sunlight glares through the front window right onto her face. “Ah!” She squeals. But then just walks away and laughs to herself. As she leaps down the steps and into the kitchen, a strong smell of syrup and sugar surrounds her. She sniffs the air wondering, “Where is this wonderful smell coming from?” Then she looks up from the steps just to see Bob standing there, a pan in one hand and an old, torn up oven mitt in the other. Evelyn blushes. Trying to hide face behind her hands, she cuffs her mouth. “Did you make breakfast?” Evelyn asks politely.
“Yes, of course. I thought it would be the right thing to do for you. Especially since you’ve been working hard around here lately.” Bob replies with a smirk on his face. His accent made him sound royal, like he should be a king. But he wasn’t. From what Evelyn knew he didn’t have any royal ancestors and had only lived in the forest. Evelyn smiled. “Well, I’ll be just outside. Want me to get any berries for breakfast?” Evelyn asked, already headed to grab her basket.
“Sure! That would be wonderful.” Bob exclaimed happily. “You never know what could be out there though, so be safe. I’ll try to keep an eye out but yell if you need me.” Bob said getting back to cooking pancakes for the two of them.
Wow...I honestly didn’t think someone could make me as happy as my parents did.. Evelyn thought to herself and she stepped down onto the cold, stone steps in her bare feet. She looked around, she had picked alot of the berries off of the trees so it was hard to find one that had many left. Bob really did make her happy. He easily got along with her and he saw through her flaws.
After Evelyn was done picking berries, she walked back into the library. The smell of smoke hit her like a smack in the face whenever she stepped inside. Waving her hand infront of her face she rushes toward the kitchen. Whenever she opens the door that leads into the kitchen, smoke blows all over her. Coughing and still trying to see she can tell cooking took a bad turn. “Evelyn! Where are you?!” Bob yells from inside of the smoke and flames.
“I’m right here! Dont worry, I’ll help you!” Evelyn replies with confidence in her voice. Without hesitation, Evelyn jumps off of the steps and into the smoke and flames. ‘Anything to save a friend. Anything to save a friend…’ She keeps thinking to herself as she feels the flames burning her legs. It feels like torture. Walking through flames. Burning and scarring her legs and feet. Soon she reaches Bob. “I can’t see! Where are you?” Bob askes in a trembling voice.
“Here, take my hand.” Evelyn replies still trying to ignore the flames licking her silk dress, burning and tarnishing it. But right when Bob’s hand meets hers, it feels like the flames lift her and she lands outside of the kitchen. She lands hardly on her back and screams at the sight of her library in flames. Black smoke everywhere. She begins to cry. Her life flashes before her eyes as the flames apporach her closer and closer every second. She has to make a decision and fast, but she can’t think straight. Her mind is everywhere but where it needs to be. Then a note lands in her lap. Not even thinking about what could be written on the inside, she opens it and starts to read the message. The note says:
Evelyn, you deserve this. If my family can’t live in a peaceful home neither can you. Say bye. Now you know how I felt.
Why would he do such a thing? I loved him-” Evelyn screaches at the top of her lungs before an unknown black figure comes behind her and sweeps her off of her feet. Never to be seen again.
"BOB!!!!!!! COME DOWN HERE AND EAT!! YOUR DINNER IS GONNA GET COLD!" said Bob's mom.
"Yes I got him! OMG I WON FORTNITE!!!!" said Bob.
Captain Robert Shumaker stood on the bridge of the ship scanning the horizon for bad things that could end his life. These bad things had tried to kill him countless times before, but nonetheless he was still alive. But the day wasn't over yet.
He insisted his crew call him Bob, as if it would help the morale and efficiency of the ancient trawler, a relic from the last war now that was now reduced to smuggling stolen electronics from secret coves in Messina to his contact off Albania. Once again they would be meeting the man tonight to deliver the goods. The man with no name who paid cash.
The Ionian sea was smooth that night and yet the crew was anxious, they kept checking their weapons and pacing, ready to smoke any pirates or criminals that tried to approach the ship.
Tom Carter, the radio operator, looked up at Bob and took a drag from his cigarette: "Bob, we just got the signal, the meet is in four hours, he sent me the coordinates, we need to turn north at a 020 heading."
"Sounds good" Bob said, "Any threats reported?"
"Not yet," Tom replied, but Bob heard the fear in his voice, the last exchange was a mess, the other contact told them the wrong coordinates, then a Greek military chopper flew over and the crew nearly opened fire on it. It could have been bad, very bad.
In an instant the fear turned real. He spotted a skiff headed at his port side at top speed immediately followed by staccato bursts of gunfire, it sounded like fifty caliber and was getting closer. He pulled the alarm and shouted for the men to take cover and open fire. As he frantically turned the ship starboard and pushed the power levers to max, he saw it, the unmistakable flash of an RPG. The missile was incoming. It was a very bad thing.