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LCARS
Library Computer Access and Retrieval System
Siren's Call
Shawn Thornburg
I have a compulsion to dash at full speed toward any body of ice or other slippery substance I see and glide across to its other side. During the winter of my freshman year of college, this compulsion created an incident that was humiliating, but even more so one that was among the funniest events of my life.
In front of our cafeteria there was a landscaping project that had only been started at the beginning of the year, and when rain fell, almost the whole project filled up with water due to its height compared to the sidewalk. Because the winter months were just settling in, the air was warm enough to precipitate with water, but cold enough to freeze it when it reached the ground. This process created, as you might have guessed, a small pond of ice; it was in possibly the most trafficked area, and thus the most tempting area on campus. As I walked to the cafeteria with two of my close friends on one fateful day, I spied this very pond and I heard it call my name with a beautiful voice that I could have heard for miles.
�Shawn. Shawn! SHAWN!� The voice grew louder with every step I took toward the cafeteria. I tried my best to contain the agony that grew inside me and churned my guts like butter, but alas the excitement swelled to such a great extent that not even my own level head or the risk of losing all dignity in front of my friends could thwart my desire to answer the siren�s call. Even if the whole student body had been standing with eyes wide open waiting to persecute my next move, the same outcome would have still emerged.
�Watch this, guys!� I shouted as I sprinted happily to my impending doom. With every lunge I took I could feel the inward turmoil calm and the siren stay her call. I was ecstatic, not only at the fact that I was about to quell my desire, but also that my nearing slide was going to be so incredulously long because of the sheer size of the pond. I jumped onto the frozen water with new enthusiasm about ice skating, and, as I landed, I felt a new, utterly unexpected and misplaced feeling: disappointment.
Suddenly (and somehow without losing my balance at all), I stopped dead in the center of the diminutive lake because of a few little bumps in the ice. I turned to my friends, who had by this point been through confusion, fear, and astonishment, and I found them in the midst of humor laughing at my interrupted attempt. I came to the conclusion that I had met my death on the rocks that surrounded the siren�s island, and resolved to make my way carefully back to shore; I was beaten.
It is honorable when you beat and humiliate an enemy to end their torment by letting up your attack; this shows that you at least have a shred of decency. Inanimate objects, and sirens alike, do not share this idea. When I took my first step off of the icy blemishes, the lake of death decided to add insult to injury by deleting any and all friction that used to be under my foot. I�ll just say that the receipt I stored in my jacket pocket earlier in the day ejected itself during my fall and was infinitely more graceful than any ballerina as it floated down and landed beside my dignity-stripped, vertically-challenged body that was lying on the bed of ice. My friends have never let me live it down.
  
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