Tag Archives: fiction

Apr 19 2012
28 Comments
Fiction, One minute read

The Moles Want Your Chocolate Chips

No mole snout will touch these.

They are here, you know. They burrow beneath us, their webbed paws ever clawing and their whiskers ever twitching their way in the earth’s darkness. They are the mole people, digging beneath the surface, squinting their eyes against the never ending dust, wearing tiny spectacles and yellow vests as commanded by their prophet-king.

Speaking with British accents to one another, they live only to dig tunnels and sacrifice chocolate chips to their strange mole gods. They grow tired of the incessant noise they hear from above.

The prophet-king tells them the gods have grown angry for forgetting the proper grammar of mole-speak and misplacing the chocolate chips meant for sacrifice, for offering the holy beings only mole skim milk instead of full cream.

The noise from above increases, the pounding, hammering, shrieking, and rumbling. The burrowers believe they feel the very pain of the earth. “We must do something,” declares their leader. “Do we sit in silence as our own folly threatens to destroy us? No. We will be smarter. We will go above and cleanse the earth of its ailments. We will find better and richer chocolate chips with which to appease our gods and we will then burrow beneath the surface once again, forever. But now we rise. To the top!”

The moles are coming. Hide your chocolate chips.

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Apr 05 2012
35 Comments
Humorous, Two minute read

The Greatest War on Earth

the loathsome slivers in all their glory

The war between us and our nails began long ago, even before our ancestors dragged their scaly bodies onto the face of the earth. They are our greatest foe, even when compared with Iran and McDonald’s, trespassing on the only thing we can really claim for our own, our bodies. We beat them back endlessly with crude weapons and still they thrust forth with new strength, feeding off our very meals.

Despicable, loathsome, and repulsive, they are a repository of filth of every kind and deep within them breeds the very scum of the earth. The sight of them can make grown men shriek and children weep. In the right circumstances, they induce nausea, fatigue, and premature labor.

And yet we tolerate them, watching as they creepily grow longer and longer until we can take it no more and destroy them, cutting them from our flesh after we have softened them with a warm shower. But they always return.

The pain of fingernails’ existence drives some to madness, weakening their mind until they bite and nip at their fingers until their very bodies bleed and they taste sweet iron on their tongues. Others try to disguise the nails with lacquered paints and frilly designs, even covering up the painful reality with plastic imitations–anything to hide their true nature.

Industries have grown up around them: their suppression and removal. They are a liability to their keeper, easily becoming a source of indescribable pain. The sounds they make– the clicking and the clacking, the gnawing and munching of their incapacitated victims– fill the air with the crazed din of an insane asylum.

For a time they are windows into the body itself, but grow disgusting all too soon—tainted with the everyday wear of life, collecting beneath them the salt of the earth and the stew of the lunch and the peel of the orange. Our fingernails and toenails are our most dedicated and successful foes. My entire life I’ve been fighting them, cutting them back, even down to the quick, feeling the sharp sting of pain until I cry out and I feel I’ve defeated them at long last. This time they will not grow back.

But they do, and I find myself in the same shameful position only two weeks later, if that. I have even slammed my finger in a car door, unconscious attempting to rid myself of the foul parasites once and for all. After weeks of hiding my mangled finger in a brace, I took it off only to see the nail growing back, ever persistent, its shape leering at me in a grotesque grin. I got on my knees and prayed to all that is holy to take this burden away from me. I only heard faint laughter from the other room, my sister watching Arrested Development.

Will I never be free?

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Mar 29 2012
25 Comments
Fiction, Miracles of British Cookery, Two minute read

How to Make a Scotch Egg

A quest for the best.

You cannot mine for truth in a quarry of lies. Likewise, you cannot search for an authentic Scotch egg recipe on Google. Even articles from reputable sources like the BBC and Allrecipes.com are wormy with deceit, indicating that mere boiling, wrapping, and frying exercises are all you need to make a Scotch egg. Do not be fooled.

A real Scotch egg can only be found through questing, and the journey is not for the faint of heart.  A long time ago, on a night like this, my babysitter told me how to seek the egg.

Should you think yourself brave, you must set out for the darkest part of the forest with nothing but a case of cheap beer, the collector’s set of American Pie movies, and a small pouch full of Sacajawea dollars, the most unpopular coin in America’s history.

In the forest, you will find a bare breasted bro* living in a tree trunk. Midway through his M.B.A. program, this bro partied a little too hard one Thursday night and lost a series of bets that led to his eternal banishment. He owns one baseball cap and lost his t-shirt months ago after trying to wash it in the creek. All he can do for entertainment is bulk up and watch sports on his iPhone. Be kind to him.

The journeyer must present the American Pie movies and beer as an offering. After accepting the gift, the bro will immediately want to have a drinking contest, but you must resist no matter how goofy he is or how much fun he promises getting hammered in the forest will be. One must retain all their wits for the next part of the journey. Politely refuse, promising him you can do it another night. Should you prove successful in your offering and bro-conversation, you will be granted the location of the magical farm. Don’t let him follow you.

Night falls as you approach the farmhouse, which appears to be abandoned.  You knock on the door and hear no answer….you try the handle….it’s unlocked. With silence in the pit of your stomach, you enter the house and find, illuminated by soft yellow light, a gleaming basket of Scotch eggs on the counter. Be careful. Do not act foolishly in your egg lust.

Look behind you!

It’s the Scotch Egg Monster protecting its litter! Throw a handful of Sacajawea dollars at the beast, grab the basket of eggs and RUN. Do not stop. Run past the bro in the tree and throw an egg at him. He needs the protein. Keep running until you are home in bed.

Catch your breath.

Devour the litter.

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Mar 23 2012
38 Comments
Three minute read

Five Blogs and One Website You Must Read

VERY EXCITED!

Not too long ago a certain lady at Life in the Boomer Lane was featured on Freshly Pressed for her piping hot word cakes that flew off the griddle and were gobbled up by hungry bloggers. I, a mere blog-troller, came along and posted a comment that was just bizarre enough to lure her to my blogging den, where—wonder of wonders—she liked what she saw and said this to me (paraphrased): “By golly kid, you got some kinda spark and I’m a gonna feature you in my neck o’ the woods sometime pretty soon now.”

And I thought that was just swell. Feature me (and others) she did, and my smile beamed a little brighter that day.

Fast forward some amount of time. The trees are slightly leafier. Children have eaten after school snacks and burned holes in their clothes while playing with matches. Gas tanks have been refilled, credit cards maxed out, light bulbs replaced, and Snotting Black was—wonders of wonders—freshly pressed, my hungover mug gracing the cover of wordpress.com for the longest 3 days of my life (they keep the Friday ones up until Monday.)

Apparently people liked the tasty blog pudding I mixed up that day and customers came in by the dozen and left lots of nice comments and some lies like “Your hangover picture isn’t that bad” and “You  shouldn’t drink.”

Then I remembered the day not too long ago when a certain blogger  burned her spotlight on the rest of us. Now it’s my turn. Check out these blogs I’ve found and one website that I have to promote because I love it.

The Rumpus: If you like to read or write, you need to be exploring The Rumpus like you don’t have a day job. This website is one of the best things I have found on the internet. If you want to cry, go here. If you want to laugh, go here. If you want to listen to good music, go here. If you want good advice, go here. It’s all on The Rumpus. And sign up for emails from Stephen Elliott because they will touch your heart.

Cosmic Revolutions: A blog dedicated to exploring the fascinating world of the future. Beware. You might learn something while reading here.

A Rebel with a Cause: Come for the beautiful photography, stay for the interesting prose and the worthy cause of SAVING THE ENTIRE EARTH.

Red Herring Online: Read his essay on how the English language is a sandwich. I was impressed and you will be too. A friendly and well spoken socialist, because we’re all comrades.

Dashtodine: Finally, a unique food blog concept with great writing to boot. This dude likes to dine, and makes time to appreciate food. I’m tearing out a page of his book and using it to wipe hot dog grease off my hands after I read it. Implementation of the philosophy comes later.

Girl in the Hat: It starts out as an attractive blog layout and gravatar image, but it doesn’t stop there. Read something! You’ll like it! You don’t even have to read all of a post—just the beginning is enough to enrich your day.

And thanks to all of you who read my blog, even just once. That’s time you’ll never get back and you gave it to reading, skimming, and/or commenting on my blog. For that I am grateful.

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Mar 22 2012
27 Comments
Humorous, One minute read

How to Be Funny With Words

I have a friend. He is real and his name is Joe. He is a novelist who co-runs a website called The Write Practice. One day I was in the bathtub playing with rubber ducky and suddenly I was like “DAMN! I need to write a guest post for this blog and tell everyone how to be funny with their words.”

I put on a towel and was teleported at that instant into his living room, scaring him, his wife, and his dog as I demanded he let me guest post on his blog. There was no knife in my hands. He acquiesced.

Later that night, I, the humorist, drank alone and wrote a post with my own blood mingled with the four humors of three cats. It was a Friday.

Weeks pass, and we arrive at today. While millions of showers are being taken, my guest post “How to be Funny with Words” will bloop onto the screen of The Write Practice, startling thousands and making hundreds more cringe as they pick their noses.

Please go to The Write Practice, and for God’s sakes, write something funny for once in your life. Do it! WRITE ABOUT THE SPOOOOOOOOOONS!

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