Anna still remembered the first time she saw it. She was in the office picking up the dittos for fractions, her chin coming even with the attendance counter.
“Yes?” Mrs. Munoz gazed down over the top of her readers, with a look that always terrified Anna.
“I was sent by Miss Penta to get the dittos for fractions. I have a hall pass,” Anna hastily slid it across the counter, her fingers sticking to the green slip of paper.
Mrs. Munoz climbed off her stool and retreated into the depths of the office. Something new sat in place of the spirit duplicator, and it hulked. Gone were the long tables with their stacks of paper and wooden inboxes. Gone was the ditto machine, cheerfully twirling its way through the school day. In its place sat something impossibly rectangular, its off-white exterior rendering it invisible unless one looked directly at it. Anna did exactly that, her mouth ajar, while Mrs. Munoz pulled the stack of copies from their new location, a tray somewhere in the depths of the machine. “Here you go,” she placed the rubber-banded stack on the counter, “I’ll write you another pass.” It took Mrs. Munoz only a moment to fill out a new green slip with the date, time, and inscription, “to class.” Anna exited into the hall, pausing to lift the worksheets to her nose.
It wasn’t there. That uncanny ditto fragrance, the scent that always brought to mind the color blue; it was gone. In its place was only the pale smell of fresh paper. Anna looked down at the worksheets. Before she realized what was happening, she had dropped them, all 25 scattering like leaves finding tendrils of wind. Every single sheet had vivid, black fractions, as clear as if the teacher had typed every sheet by hand.
A student from another class bent to help her, her eyes widening behind her plastic-framed glasses, “Are these from the photocopier?”
“You mean they are pictures?” Anna regarded the pages with increasing interest. Could a picture be made on such thin, ordinary paper?
“No, there’s a drum that the ink sticks to and then stamps it onto things,” the girl paused, “I think.” She handed Anna the stack of paper and skipped down the hall.
“Thanks,” Anna called after her.
__
Anna looked at the red circle on her worksheet; “½ + ¾ =2/4 + ¾ = 5/4.” She had forgotten to simplify the fraction. It was one of several errors she had made, each marked in her teacher’s neat hand.
How on earth could one add fractions when there were so many other things to think about? A machine with a giant stamp inside, or was it a drum, like in the music room? Anna imagined a snare drum. No, it had to be more like a bongo, silken and leathery on top. A blue bunny would hoist it above his head, then pound it against a sheet of paper. Anna shook her head, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t even original. The bunny came from a TV commercial, the giant stamp from a cartoon.
“Hey,” a boy her age with a mullet the color of dishwater leaned over her, “Bad grade, Anna?”
“Hi, Luke,” Anna stuffed the worksheet in her bag, “No one likes fractions, right?”
“No one,” he pointed at the playground, the other children scampering over the play structure like monkeys, “Wanna play?”
“I feel more like walking.” The playground had trees on the far end with at least one flying squirrel. Kids would wander over to the shade to peer up into the fir-trimmed boughs, hoping to catch a glimpse of one.
Luke nodded and together they wandered around the perimeter of the yard, passing through a game of dodgeball. As they neared the tetherball pole, its ball clanging as it swung; Anna burst into a run. She ran full-out, her shadow wheeling under her feet, tennis shoes slapping the blacktop. On and on she ran until Luke’s hand closed over her shoulder. “Tag,” he gasped. They chased each other until the air chugged from their lungs like a locomotive, and their laughter burned the backs of their throats.
Bracing herself against her knees, Anna huffed, “Did you notice. The worksheet. Wasn’t blue?”
“No.”
“There’s a new machine. Maybe there’s a typewriter in there,” an image of a bunny seated at an Underwood filled her mind.
“Probably just gears and widgets,” Luke bent to pick up a pebble, tossing it towards the tree line.
“I wanna see what’s in there.”
“Anna, you know Mrs. Munoz would never let you . . .” Luke’s nose crinkled in thought, “Well, unless you didn’t ask her.”
—
Anna’s stomach hurt, or at least that’s what she told the teacher. She was sent to see the nurse, a green slip of paper in hand. Approaching the office, she affected a bent posture, clutching her stomach.
“Are you sick, Sweetie?” Mrs. Munoz’s syrupy tone surprised her so much, that Anna almost dropped her ruse.
“Uh-huh,” she kept her eyes trained on the industrial carpet.
Mrs. Munoz shepherded her into the nurse’s office, not bothering to ask for her hall pass. Baffled, Anna stared at nurse’s crisp, collared uniform. “Let’s have a look,” the nurse patted a vinyl table.
“My stomach hurts,” Anna offered.
The nurse stuck a thermometer in her mouth and ducked out of the room. Anna scooted off the table, peeking out the door. Mrs. Munoz perched on a stool, her back turned to the office. Behind her hummed the machine, a green light emanating from inside it. Dropping the thermometer into her pocket, Anna tip-toed over to the far side of the office. Crouching on the ground, she tugged on the front panel of the machine. It swung open with a click that seemed to echo through the office, bouncing off the blank walls. Anna nervously glanced at Mrs. Munoz, still seated at the counter, a phone receiver cradled between her ear and shoulder. Taking a deep breath, Anna crawled inside the machine.
She was in a dim corridor that narrowed down until she could barely squeeze through. It wound its way upward, terminating into an attic space. “Strange,” Anna thought, wandering through the room. It was more of a house, she supposed, than an attic. There were plants and aging furniture, a heavy layer of dust covering everything. Curious, she opened every door, wandering in and out until she found herself in a ballroom with varnished floors and light fixtures reminiscent of the planets. The ceiling was a dome of leaded glass, and a sense of awe rose up inside of her as she neared its apex. And near it, she did, rising up to meet the ceiling, her feet no longer tethered to the ground beneath her. Just as she touched it with the tip of her finger, sleep washed over her.
Anna woke on the vinyl table in the nurse’s office. Outside of the door, a familiar voice spoke in muffled tones. “Mom,” Anna called out, then louder, “Mom!”
“Oh, you’re awake,” her mother felt her forehead with the back of her hand, “I heard your stomach was hurting, so I got off work a little early to take you home from school.”
Guilt tickled the back of her tongue. She hadn’t meant for her mother to come; she had planned to be back in class by now, brimming with the secrets of the machine. Her mother blocked her view of the copier as they exited the office. Anna shot it a backwards glance as they exited into the hall, but the only thing she could see was Mrs. Munoz, wiping under her glasses with a tissue. “What’s wrong with Mrs. Munoz?”
“There was some sort of accident and someone got hurt,” her mother held open the heavy double doors for her, “Anna, you may hear a lot of strange things over the next few weeks, but it’s best to not listen too hard.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” her mother pointed to her car, parked in the pick-up lane, “Do you want to ride up front? I’ll let you pick the music.”
As Anna stepped into the car, she felt something poke her in her pocket. Pulling out the thermometer, a whirl of memories, a card catalogue of images spun through her head. Suddenly she knew who had been hurt, and moreover, who they would find turning her key in the latch when they arrived home.
It was her copy.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I have no idea what is making the rounds right now, but the whole family was sick for awhile. Whenever I'm sick, my brain misfires a little more than usual and well, you get short stories about photocopiers set in the 1980's.
Anyway, I haven't taken a whole lot of pictures lately, so here's a few screenshots that made me laugh:
“Yes?” Mrs. Munoz gazed down over the top of her readers, with a look that always terrified Anna.
“I was sent by Miss Penta to get the dittos for fractions. I have a hall pass,” Anna hastily slid it across the counter, her fingers sticking to the green slip of paper.
Mrs. Munoz climbed off her stool and retreated into the depths of the office. Something new sat in place of the spirit duplicator, and it hulked. Gone were the long tables with their stacks of paper and wooden inboxes. Gone was the ditto machine, cheerfully twirling its way through the school day. In its place sat something impossibly rectangular, its off-white exterior rendering it invisible unless one looked directly at it. Anna did exactly that, her mouth ajar, while Mrs. Munoz pulled the stack of copies from their new location, a tray somewhere in the depths of the machine. “Here you go,” she placed the rubber-banded stack on the counter, “I’ll write you another pass.” It took Mrs. Munoz only a moment to fill out a new green slip with the date, time, and inscription, “to class.” Anna exited into the hall, pausing to lift the worksheets to her nose.
It wasn’t there. That uncanny ditto fragrance, the scent that always brought to mind the color blue; it was gone. In its place was only the pale smell of fresh paper. Anna looked down at the worksheets. Before she realized what was happening, she had dropped them, all 25 scattering like leaves finding tendrils of wind. Every single sheet had vivid, black fractions, as clear as if the teacher had typed every sheet by hand.
A student from another class bent to help her, her eyes widening behind her plastic-framed glasses, “Are these from the photocopier?”
“You mean they are pictures?” Anna regarded the pages with increasing interest. Could a picture be made on such thin, ordinary paper?
“No, there’s a drum that the ink sticks to and then stamps it onto things,” the girl paused, “I think.” She handed Anna the stack of paper and skipped down the hall.
“Thanks,” Anna called after her.
__
Anna looked at the red circle on her worksheet; “½ + ¾ =2/4 + ¾ = 5/4.” She had forgotten to simplify the fraction. It was one of several errors she had made, each marked in her teacher’s neat hand.
How on earth could one add fractions when there were so many other things to think about? A machine with a giant stamp inside, or was it a drum, like in the music room? Anna imagined a snare drum. No, it had to be more like a bongo, silken and leathery on top. A blue bunny would hoist it above his head, then pound it against a sheet of paper. Anna shook her head, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t even original. The bunny came from a TV commercial, the giant stamp from a cartoon.
“Hey,” a boy her age with a mullet the color of dishwater leaned over her, “Bad grade, Anna?”
“Hi, Luke,” Anna stuffed the worksheet in her bag, “No one likes fractions, right?”
“No one,” he pointed at the playground, the other children scampering over the play structure like monkeys, “Wanna play?”
“I feel more like walking.” The playground had trees on the far end with at least one flying squirrel. Kids would wander over to the shade to peer up into the fir-trimmed boughs, hoping to catch a glimpse of one.
Luke nodded and together they wandered around the perimeter of the yard, passing through a game of dodgeball. As they neared the tetherball pole, its ball clanging as it swung; Anna burst into a run. She ran full-out, her shadow wheeling under her feet, tennis shoes slapping the blacktop. On and on she ran until Luke’s hand closed over her shoulder. “Tag,” he gasped. They chased each other until the air chugged from their lungs like a locomotive, and their laughter burned the backs of their throats.
Bracing herself against her knees, Anna huffed, “Did you notice. The worksheet. Wasn’t blue?”
“No.”
“There’s a new machine. Maybe there’s a typewriter in there,” an image of a bunny seated at an Underwood filled her mind.
“Probably just gears and widgets,” Luke bent to pick up a pebble, tossing it towards the tree line.
“I wanna see what’s in there.”
“Anna, you know Mrs. Munoz would never let you . . .” Luke’s nose crinkled in thought, “Well, unless you didn’t ask her.”
—
Anna’s stomach hurt, or at least that’s what she told the teacher. She was sent to see the nurse, a green slip of paper in hand. Approaching the office, she affected a bent posture, clutching her stomach.
“Are you sick, Sweetie?” Mrs. Munoz’s syrupy tone surprised her so much, that Anna almost dropped her ruse.
“Uh-huh,” she kept her eyes trained on the industrial carpet.
Mrs. Munoz shepherded her into the nurse’s office, not bothering to ask for her hall pass. Baffled, Anna stared at nurse’s crisp, collared uniform. “Let’s have a look,” the nurse patted a vinyl table.
“My stomach hurts,” Anna offered.
The nurse stuck a thermometer in her mouth and ducked out of the room. Anna scooted off the table, peeking out the door. Mrs. Munoz perched on a stool, her back turned to the office. Behind her hummed the machine, a green light emanating from inside it. Dropping the thermometer into her pocket, Anna tip-toed over to the far side of the office. Crouching on the ground, she tugged on the front panel of the machine. It swung open with a click that seemed to echo through the office, bouncing off the blank walls. Anna nervously glanced at Mrs. Munoz, still seated at the counter, a phone receiver cradled between her ear and shoulder. Taking a deep breath, Anna crawled inside the machine.
She was in a dim corridor that narrowed down until she could barely squeeze through. It wound its way upward, terminating into an attic space. “Strange,” Anna thought, wandering through the room. It was more of a house, she supposed, than an attic. There were plants and aging furniture, a heavy layer of dust covering everything. Curious, she opened every door, wandering in and out until she found herself in a ballroom with varnished floors and light fixtures reminiscent of the planets. The ceiling was a dome of leaded glass, and a sense of awe rose up inside of her as she neared its apex. And near it, she did, rising up to meet the ceiling, her feet no longer tethered to the ground beneath her. Just as she touched it with the tip of her finger, sleep washed over her.
Anna woke on the vinyl table in the nurse’s office. Outside of the door, a familiar voice spoke in muffled tones. “Mom,” Anna called out, then louder, “Mom!”
“Oh, you’re awake,” her mother felt her forehead with the back of her hand, “I heard your stomach was hurting, so I got off work a little early to take you home from school.”
Guilt tickled the back of her tongue. She hadn’t meant for her mother to come; she had planned to be back in class by now, brimming with the secrets of the machine. Her mother blocked her view of the copier as they exited the office. Anna shot it a backwards glance as they exited into the hall, but the only thing she could see was Mrs. Munoz, wiping under her glasses with a tissue. “What’s wrong with Mrs. Munoz?”
“There was some sort of accident and someone got hurt,” her mother held open the heavy double doors for her, “Anna, you may hear a lot of strange things over the next few weeks, but it’s best to not listen too hard.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” her mother pointed to her car, parked in the pick-up lane, “Do you want to ride up front? I’ll let you pick the music.”
As Anna stepped into the car, she felt something poke her in her pocket. Pulling out the thermometer, a whirl of memories, a card catalogue of images spun through her head. Suddenly she knew who had been hurt, and moreover, who they would find turning her key in the latch when they arrived home.
It was her copy.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I have no idea what is making the rounds right now, but the whole family was sick for awhile. Whenever I'm sick, my brain misfires a little more than usual and well, you get short stories about photocopiers set in the 1980's.
Anyway, I haven't taken a whole lot of pictures lately, so here's a few screenshots that made me laugh:
 |
| Writing equals cat food, obviously. |
 |
| I give you the letter that you have violated my grammar. |