Tag Archives: fiction

Mar 20 2012
53 Comments
Fiction, Humorous, Stories

Prophecies in the Bathroom

Speak and we listen, oh wise oracle

My roommate’s loofah is an oracle.

As it sits unassumingly on the bathtub’s rim in all its rough, spongy banality, it communicates with the gods and is our mediator, though I do not presume to call it our friend.

Its strange shape– the mysterious internal chambers, the bizarre woven texture, the evenly regulated rippling of its exterior—is designed to absorb the gods’ will and disperse it throughout the bathroom as if in a fine prophetical mist. How many times have I been in the bathroom when I am visited by intense revelations: insights into my future after I return from Egypt, novel birthday gift ideas, meals I should eat later on in the day, the appropriate length to which I should cut my bangs?

Before I knew the truth, I thought these moments of brilliance were the result of my own cognitions. Now I know they came from the sponge.

The oracle is ancient. Before this apartment building, before the city of Cairo had even been conceived of in thought or deed, the oracle quietly existed. In the time of the ancient Greeks, sandaled men and women would journey on foot for days with baskets and pots on their heads just to seek the oracle’s presence, and if they were lucky, its prophecies. It was revered by all, though they feared to worship it because of the gods’ anger.

The oracle itself did not want their worship; it wanted quiet. It longed to cease answering the absurd petitions of man and meld its consciousness completely with that of the gods. Daily and nightly it was pulled out of its reverie to a brash existence, greedy humans grubbing after what was not theirs to know. Who could ever truly understand the will of the gods?

The Greeks came and went, as did countless other civilizations, the piles of rubble growing and shrinking with the ages, until Cairo came, and the sponge was once again lifted up, into our bathroom, onto the bathtub’s rim where it now sits enigmatically, an endless stream of communication flowing between it and heaven.

I now realize I misspoke. The loofah could not belong to my roommate any more than the Rocky Mountains could belong to the United States. These kinds of things are not simply owned. Indeed, because the loofah oracle did not belong to me, I assumed it was my roommate’s and she likely assumes the same.

This is the wisdom of the oracle. It quietly leads us down paths of assumption, all the while safeguarding its own peace. It does not even pay the price of having to scrub elbows and backs and instead gently perfumes the air with knowledge, leading us to greater insights.

And today is the last day it gets a free ride. As far as I’m concerned, things are about to get exfoliated up in here. Just wait until the weather gets warm enough for everyday sandal wearing—I don’t care much for prophecies but I do need something to sand down the horns that grow on my feet. Thanks oracle!

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Mar 16 2012
37 Comments
Fiction, Humorous, Two minute read

Belle vs. Beatrix Kiddo

This post is in relation to a movie character tournament I’ve entered over at EduClaytion. If you read nothing else, please go there and vote for Belle sometime—either today or Saturday.

Warning: contains violent material but no sex. MPAA rating: G.

The Opponents:

Simple but peculiar country girl.

Belle: A girl from the French countryside, Belle is quiet but intelligent, a bookworm who adores cute animals and singing. She especially loves the waltz, brightly colored floor length dresses, and fairy tales. Her biggest wish in life is to find true love and remain close to her father.

Hardened killer.

Beatrix:  Formerly the most skilled member of the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad, Beatrix Kiddo has killed more people for money than live in Oklahoma. She once survived a bullet to the head, awaking from a five year coma only to wreak revenge on her would-be killer. Possessor of the Five Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique, she is a merciless machine.

The Fight:

The room is completely dark. One spotlight illuminates Belle as she sits at an ornate desk, reading Pride and Prejudice, hardback edition. She hums softly and is wearing a stunning golden ball gown, barefoot.

Beatrix enters the room and slowly approaches the desk, every nerve in her body on edge. She was facing a Disney class pyscho.

“Oh.” Belle murmurs without looking up. “It’s you. That’s too bad. This book is fascinating, and I was just about to get to my favorite part because, you’ll see, here’s where you DIE!”

Still screeching she slams her book shut, thrusting herself away from the desk. Beatrix freezes, mesmerized by the creature…the word  “beast” echoing in her head. Animal-like, Belle leaps three feet into the air, landing on the study as she savors the fear in Beatrix’s eyes. She hisses and then lunges at Beatrix who at the last moment aims a punch at Belle’s perfectly formed chin.

It hits true. But Belle is a most peculiar mademoiselle. Her mouth gapes wide, jaws extending to inhuman proportions, and her teeth sink into Beatrix’s hand flesh. At the same moment, Belle grips her book and digs one of its corners into the ex-assassin’s left eye. Howling in pain, Beatrix attempts to repel the beast with a kick to her abdomen.

Big mistake.

Belle grasps her foot and wrenches it and her entire leg hard to the left. Tendons, ligaments snap. Beatrix begins to lose consciousness, staggering backward until she tumbles to the ground.

The princess is on her prey in a second and gets ready to deliver the coup de grace. She summons everything within her and cries a single tear that falls on Beatrix’s right cheek.

With a perfumed sizzle, her skin turns into a single rose petal at the tear’s impact point. Rippling outward from the teardrop, her body continues its transformation until all that remains of the ex-assassin is a pile of rose petals and a sheathed sword.

With both hands, Belle scoops up the petals and presses them to her face, inhaling deeply. She tosses them on the ground and goes back to reading. Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth were about to dance.

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Feb 24 2012
28 Comments
Fiction, Humorous

Karen’s Unicorn: Gym Nuisance

this is after she was arrested and executed for manslaughter and then put on display as an artifact

So I saw Karen’s unicorn at the gym last night. She was benching about 250 in that belly shirt of hers, all her glittery unicorn flesh just hanging out for the entire gym to see and of course she was sporting those short shorts, prancing around the gym every chance she got. And that dumb swooshy tail of hers that she whips around nonstop, spraying toxic magic dust everywhere—-swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, like she’s the freaking queen of the dumbbells.

It’s pretty ridiculous if you ask me. And she never wipes the machines down. Never. So if you use one after her, you’re definitely going to get unicorn dust all over you and God knows what’s going to happen after that. I heard it can even be addictive, like you get some kind of unicorn buzz and colors are more vibrant and you feel alive, but then immediately afterwards you’re a wreck. Life loses its meaning and everything tastes like ash. People have died from this so I don’t think it’s too much to ask her to wipe down the freaking machines.

And just because she’s a unicorn, she thinks she’s so special, like she deserves to use the stationary bike for longer than 30 minutes. Well, I’ve got news for you, sugar, just because you’re a minxy tart of a shimmery, magical creature doesn’t give you the right to come into our gym, coat our machines with your poisonous dust, and then trot out of here on your pearly hooves like you own the place. What forest did you prance out of that you think this is okay? What does Karen have to say about this? Why are you using the treadmill anyways? Isn’t there some mystical wood that you can go romp around in with your other deviant friends? Can’t you just leave us non-magical folk in peace and not torment us with your sweet, sweet unicorn dust?

Do I even have to mention the experience of using the bathroom after her? It’s a nightmare. The stall is so heavily scented with cinnamon and vanilla I can hardly breathe. Literally I almost suffocated when I was changing clothes. If that wasn’t bad enough, my shoe touched one of her mane hairs left on the ground and the whole thing turned into a flock of yellow butterflies that just fluttered away.

Do you see my point here? My shoe flew away. This was my shoe, that I had purchased to wear for the purpose of engaging in athletic activity, and it flew away. This is simply unacceptable. Karen’s unicorn has got to go. I can’t stand the thought of seeing her again, doing squats with her majestic unicorn might, her belly button ring glinting in the  fluorescent lights. Do you know how distracting that is?

And I want her to buy me a pair of shoes and/or catch the flock of butterflies. Am I being unreasonable?

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Feb 22 2012
16 Comments
Fiction, Two minute read

Deconstructed Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich

This recipe was taken from an episode of Top Chef: Personal Lives

To make the perfect deconstructed PB&J:

Make sure you are alone. Check the bedrooms, kitchen, closets, basement, staircases, and behind, making sure you are unaccompanied. Lock the doors.

Stalk your way to the kitchen. Be furtive. The more furtive you are, the better the deconstructed sandwich will taste. A furtive sandwich is a tasty sandwich.

Glance around shamefully, then reach into the cabinet and withdraw the half empty jar of peanut butter from its lair. You are not a pessimist, but there’s no denying you’ve already eaten half of the peanut butter. It is a large jar, with 24 servings, a total of 48 tablespoons. You’ve done the math. There is no call for optimism here.

Make sure you are alone.

Quietly, ever so quietly, remove the lid. Quickly check behind you and then grab a knife from the drawer, a butter knife. Slowly close the squeaky drawer, trying to make as little noise as possible. Wince at every creak. A quiet sandwich is a good sandwich.

today, we dine on pb&j alone

With the jar and knife, creep to your bedroom, shutting the door behind you. Set the peanut butter timer for ten minutes. Crawl into bed and, with the knife, eat the peanut butter, varying your technique slightly from bite to bite. It’s just you, the knife, the peanut butter, and the timer.

When the timer goes off, jump as if something has scared you. Realize it was just the fact you sat by yourself in your room alone eating peanut butter for ten minutes. Push this thought away and then continue making the deconstructed PB&J.

Pick up the jar and knife, cleaned of all traces of peanut butter, and make your way back to the kitchen. The lights in the house should be off, curtains closed except for a crack through which you can see the outside world. Sandwiches in the dark are toothsome sandwiches.

In the kitchen, place the peanut butter back in its dark corner.

Choose your favorite spoon, the one you eat frosting and ice cream with, the one you would take with you should you ever travel again, the spoon you would want your friends to see,  the spoon you would want to look like if you still went out to social events.

Open the mostly empty fridge and remove your only jar of jam, which is almost gone. Open it up and slurp down a few mouthfuls with your spoon. Reassure yourself that you deserve this. Notice how the sweet, cool, smooth texture of the jam contrasts beautifully with the creamy, slightly savory, nutty aftertaste of the peanut butter. Afterwards, notice how you are eating jam out of the jar.

A quiet sandwich is a good sandwich.

Screw the lid on the jam and put it back. After closing the door, glance at the pictures on the fridge. Wonder if you should call your mother.

Eat a slice of bread later on, after waking from your nap.

P.S. Teddie Peanut Butter is the best.

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Feb 20 2012
16 Comments
Fiction, Three minute read

Old Man in Captain Hat Talks About Tunnels

please ignore resemblance to an anus.

The following is fictional. I just wanted to write something about crawling through a tunnel.

It’s Wednesday night and I’m at O’Leary’s again. The best thing about this place is that the dim lighting covers up the filth and makes makes people look more interesting than they actually are.   As I finish my beer, I remember once again that I’m drinking alone.  I slap six dollars on the bar and reach for my jacket. From behind me I suddenly hear someone whisper.

“Psss….”

I turn around and out of nowhere there’s an old dude sitting right there with a wonky eye and a captain’s hat. How had I not seen him before?

“Yeah?” I say, wondering what he wants. Had I dropped something?

“You ever go through a tunnel?” the captain growls.

“What?” I said. This was beginning to be a little strange.

“I said, ‘You ever get on your elbows and knees, down in the dirt and the grime, and crawl into the darkness, not sure if you gonna see the light again, and make your way like a worm through the belly of the earth?”

“Well…..”

“Do you know what it’s like? You’re down there, in the endless shadow, and you’re alone. All you see is a spit of dirt in front of you where your flashlight shine from your mouth, one inch above you is the earth, and beneath you is the earth. You got nowhere to go but forward or back. The earth is swallowing you up. You just a few sorry square feet of matter down there, with all that earth about you. And you know in one second you could be gone.”

I’m not sure how to respond…I don’t feel that uncomfortable because he doesn’t even seem to be talking to me. Would he notice if I left? But then he goes on, apparently lost in a memory.

“And it don’t matter how good you are. Once you’re down there, the panic’s gonna come. You’re going to be halfway to the center of the earth, wiggling your bottom like a popstar, and sooner or later it’s going to hit you. Maybe after five minutes, maybe after an hour. It don’t matter none. You’re gonna wanna see the light. You’re gonna wanna stand up and shout out and see the sun and know life’s got meaning again because down in the darkness you don’t know what’s real. You’re gonna wanna smell a woman’s hair again, gonna wonder about your friends and family, if you got them, and more than anything, you’re gonna want space. But there ain’t no space. Not in the tunnel. And the more you think about it, the more unbearable the tunnel gets, till it seems it’s closing in on you, lowering itself little by little, trying to squish you out of existence. You can’t see nothing ahead of you, just more tunnel. You feel it’s never going to end and for a moment, you know you’d rather die than be in the tunnel for another second, where you can’t move, can’t breathe hardly, can’t hear anything besides your own scared breaths, touch anything besides dirt. And then you know that you’ve already died and you’re in hell itself. The tunnel becomes your hell, a personal hell. And you know you can’t go on, that you’re going to stay there in your dark, dirty hell and die the death of an animal. Your world is so small…so small….”

I just stare at him for a second while he looks past me. Do I say anything? Do I try to reassure him and tell him it’s okay? But once again he continues with no verbal notification from me.

“So after 25 years, I finally got me this captain’s hat and became a Christian.”

A few hours later, I realized my wallet, ring, and watch were gone.

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