Tag Archive for 'Writing'

A Steampunk Tale of the Gay 90’s

Published on 25 January, 2010 in Micro-Fiction. 0 Comments Tags: , , , .
This entry is part 13 of 13 in the series Micro-Fiction

But for a nervous twitch, the Inventor sat quietly as the Gentleman slowly browsed the showroom floor, casually looking over each of the brass and steel Automech.  Occasionaly, he would stop and study one a little closer, rocking back and forth heel to toe as he puffed his large–and especially offensive–cigar.

“This one,” he said as he peered close into the glass eyes of the six foot, man-shaped figure.  “Tell me what it’s good for.”

“Ah!  That’s Champ.  Champ can do small chores around the house.  He can bring the paper in. He’ll announce visitors when you’re home, and frighten away burglars when you’re not. He’s good with children, other Automech and household pets. He’ll even feed himself coal when his boiler is cooling down.”

“That’s all?” the Gentleman said. “Says here on the card that he’s good for the wife.”

“Well,” the Inventor said with a slight blush. “He has an attachment, for the hysterical wife.”

“The hysterical wife? What sort of attachment…”

The inventor removed the attachment from the case and snapped it into place. The Gentleman’s eyes grew wide.

“Oh. I see. But what’s that larger attachment? Surely not…”

“Heavens no!” the Inventor said. “That attachment snaps into place at the wrist, for steaming dishes clean and removing wall paper.”

“Dishes and wallpaper, eh? Well, I’ll tell you what, sir. Remove fifty dollars from this price and I’ll take him!”

Two days later, the Inventor was reading the daily paper when he noticed the story about a gentleman who had somehow managed to be killed in some strange home misadventure. Apparently, he had somehow boiled his bowel and intestine from the inside out.

“Back to the drawing board,” the Inventor said.

Yes. I’m clever. And disturbed. Disturbed and clever. The Gay 90’s! Get it? And also: the thing on the Hysterical women? Sadly, the concept was believed true then… look it up. Easy to imagine a steampunk view of that. Just be careful which attachment you use.

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Five Gallons of Love

Published on 18 January, 2010 in Micro-Fiction. 0 Comments Tags: , , , .
This entry is part 12 of 13 in the series Micro-Fiction

Driving in circles, around the block again and again. He knows he should stop. In front of her house, get out of the car and tell her exactly how he feels about her before it’s too late.

If she’s even been looking casually out the window, she must have seen his car more than twice in his forty or fifty trips around her block. What must she think of that? Will she think he’s just pathetic? Becoming a stalker in the aftermath of their romance? Or will she be thinking how sweet it is that he’s circling the block, trying to get the right words to convey what he feels about her?

He knows that he can’t continue to circle her block. Eventually, he’ll run out of gas, or his tires will begin to wear out from the right turns. Well over a hundred of them by now. Sooner or later, even if she doesn’t notice, someone else might and then call the police. With his luck, he’ll be pulled over right in front of her house and he’ll have to try and pretend he doesn’t know her while she stands on her front porch to watch the commotion. Hopefully, she’d pretend the same, to avoid embarrassment for both of them.

He can’t keep this up.

He pulls over in front of her house. Before he is fully out of his car, she is on the front porch. She had noticed. And now she was looking at him with nervous anticipation, biting her lower lip hopefully as he comes up the front walk.

“Nancy,” he says as he stops at the foot of her porch steps.

“Yes?” she says, holding her hands in front of her like a little kid in church.

“Fuck you.”

As he walks back to his car, he hears her door close with finality. He feels pounds lighter.

He drives away and does not circle her block.

His only regret is that he didn’t gas up. He walks past her house towards the closest gas station with his gas can in hand.

If she notices, she doesn’t say anything.

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Made of Meat

Published on 5 March, 2009 in Featured, Micro-Fiction, What the...? and Writing. 0 Comments Tags: , .
This entry is part 10 of 13 in the series Micro-Fiction

Stefan slowly paced in the kitchen, waiting for Maria to get home from the store. He was starving. Starving! He knew that if she did not get home soon, he would begin to fade and waste away.

Another hour passed. Starving! he even said it aloud to the cat, in case the cat was wondering about the pacing. “Starving!”

The cat just looked away.

Stefan decided that he might want to stop talking and pacing. He was wasting valuable, precious energy with his movement. He didn’t know if he could make it.

He didn’t know if he could make it.

Starving!

The cat tasted filthy, but nourishing. Maria’s parrot, while not as meaty as expected, was delicious. When the mailman came with the bills, magazines and a box of mail order pears, Stefan lunged.

Thin slices of the mailman, a second helping actually, sizzled in the frying pan. The aroma of bacon wafted through the door as Maria opened it.

“My god, Stefan,” she whispered in shock. “What have you done?”

“Look,” he shouted, hoping that he was sounding rational. “You left three hours ago for the groceries. Three hours! I Was starving. Starving! And it occurred to me, that this is all just meat. The cat, the bird, the mail man… All just meat!”

“But… but Stefan,” she said as she slowly backed towards the door. “You’re a vegetarian!”

This is not a true story. Yet. Give it time!

AB

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The Pope of Rock ‘n Roll: Divine or Diva?

Published on 25 February, 2009 in Micro-Fiction and Writing. 0 Comments Tags: , , , , .
This entry is part 9 of 13 in the series Micro-Fiction

It wasn’t everyday that you got to meet the Pope of Rock ‘n Roll.

Elvis Buddy Hendrix had been standing in line for hours, almost a full day, just for the opportunity to see the top of the pointed hat of the sainted Pontiff of Punk, Monsignor of Mosh, Bishop of  Black Metal, etc. etc.

As the drum beat started, the crowd surged, a roaring scream of excited approval. Lighters were lit and held aloft, votives to the God of Rock’s earthly ambassador. The bass line started, and the screams grew louder. Women, and more than a few men swooned as the opening riff was played on the distorted guitar.

“Are you ready to rock?” echoed a voice from the massive P.A.

“Yeah!” screamed tens of thousands of die hard fans, Elvis among them.

“Then put your hands together for the one, the only… Pope Axl-Maynard Hetfield the II!”

Insanity. People were being crushed against anything that people could be crushed against. Lighters were dropped, and in a few instances where they were Zippo style lighters, small fires broke out on people, to be mostly put out by sweat and the loss of oxygen created by the teeming mass of fandom.

“Hawya duun?” the Pope said into his microphone. The screams must have pleased him, because he followed with an “Awright!” He started to sing, incoherently, the opening lines of the song that had been building for the past minute. Then he puked into the waiting, adoring fans being crushed against the stage. They recieved his whiskey laced vomit as if it were communion. He then opened the fly on his white jeans and blessed the crowd with his piss. He mumbled the half-remembered chorus into the microphone, was hit with an empty water bottle and a thong, and then stormed from the stage screaming obscenities.

As the riot began to be quelled by the teargas throwing members of the Swiss Guard, Elvis fought his way towards an exit, choking and coughing as he thought about how this would always be the greatest day of his life.

I get a fever, you get weird shit.

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A Regular Realization

Published on 10 December, 2008 in Micro-Fiction and Writing. 0 Comments Tags: , .
This entry is part 6 of 13 in the series Micro-Fiction

At some point, between the steady sound of traffic and the silence of sleep, he was hit with the realization that he just wasn’t happy.

The side of the bed that his wife once occupied was empty, and though he was glad to rid of the miserable bitch, the emptiness resonated with an ache.

And he knew that in the morning. He would wake up, drink coffee and shave with a lit cigarette dangling from his lower lip.

He would listen to the news, none of it good these days, and then get in his car and drive to the soul crushing office where he worked. He spent forty hours a week trying to think of ways to get out, or at the very least, get numb enough to not care that he was in a place that he hated.

He would finish his day and make his way home. He would stop at the usual place for his coffee, drink half of it as he finished the ride, and the other half over whatever dinner he had chosen to microwave while he watched mindless television programs.

He looked at the clock by his bed. It was late. Time for sleep. And as he drifted off, he came up with a hundred ideas–some of them new–to make tomorrow different. To make some amazing changes in his life before another year was over.

And like always, the ideas faded with the sound of the traffic as he was wrapped in the silence of sleep, his last thought was that tomorrow was another day.

Always, tomorrow was another day.

Great. I think I bummed myself out. What a way to get back to the Micro-Fiction, eh?

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