Wednesday, November 25, 2009

3WW & #FLASHFRIDAY aka Double Duty

On this Wednesday in November, when (if you try hard enough) you can still dodge Christmas music, comes the appropriate words GIVE, OBVIOUS and THANKS. I didn't go dark this time, but still enjoyed being creative.

Enjoy the season!


“Give a little bit. Give a little bit of your love, to me.”

Curly sang aloud, off key, bopping her auburn mop to the beat emanating into her head. Even though the melody was off, it was obvious by her jiggly nods that she was listening to the bastardized Goo Goo Dolls version of the song rather than Supertramp’s feel good classic.

She sat directly in front of him on his first, and hopefully last, Greyhound bus ride. Thirty years old, without a job, without prospects, without hope, and moving in with his parents. Ben was extremely bitter. The last thing he needed was to travel the one hundred some odd miles listening to an off-key head-bopper with horrible taste in music.

Silence. She stopped singing. Curly bent forward. Ben thought he heard a quiet “damn”. Ben let out a breath, one he hadn’t realized he held. Maybe her IPod ran out of juice... one could hope. Just as he settled back, turned his head to watch the passing scenery, she started again.

“Did you write the book of love....” she croaked. Curly’s debauchery of Madonna’s debauchery of Don McLean. Toes curling, fists clenching, teeth gnashing, Ben wished the bus would just crash already and speed him to hell rather than torture him with the soundtrack.

After an eternal four more minutes, she pulled out her earbuds. Ben heard the tinny whine but blessedly, he couldn’t make out the song. Curly turned around in her seat.

“Hey! What doos ‘paradox’ mean?” she asked with a lilt. Irish, he thought. She kneeled in her seat and handed her folded newspaper over its back. “See? Right here, seven doown.”

“Paradox,” Ben repeated, pretending to look at her paper. She had the most gorgeous green eyes he’d ever seen. He cleared his throat.

“Well? D’yew knew or whot?” Her lilt softened the tone.

“Oh yeah, I know. A paradox is a woman with horrible taste in music and the singing voice of a toad, but the speaking voice of an angel. Paradox.”

She stared at him, expressionless. Ben smiled at her, but she didn’t move, didn’t react, didn’t budge.

After a full minute she shook her paper at him.

Ben blushed as he looked at the puzzle again. “Er, paradox means ah, let me see, ends in ‘a’… try ‘enigma’.”

“Another goddamn know-it-all, A-hole-critic,” she mumbled under her breath as she replaced the earbuds. “Thanks. Thanks a lot,” she shouted over her shoulder before she belted out “There she goes… there she goes again….”

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

3WW... Again.

I know, lame excuse, but it is a valid one for the whole month of November... (cue ominous music) NANOWRIMO! Yes, that's my excuse for taking a break, wandering along the friend-thread to the back alley where words hang out, get high, interface with each other and expect me (and you) to sort out their mess.

I think I did it. The words that stumbled into me (and spilled my beer without offering to replace it... the nerve!) were Obscene, Loyal and Accident. It was an obscene accident for me to try to be loyal to my tweet buddy, the f*#@ing administrator of 3WW...

No, that wasn't my offering. This is it:

A Head to Get Ahead

Troy, her great-great-great-great (how many greats?) grandson placed her head, within its cryogenic acrylic-alloyed capsule gently upon the gurney. She had told her lawyer (how many centuries ago?) that the MacIntyres were fiercely loyal to the family name, and would do anything in the name of family—as long as there was an obscene amount of money involved. Troy proved her right by authorizing the opening of the hermetically sealed vault and ordering the thaw.

She raised her eyebrows (and savored the physicality of it!) at her descendant. He nodded once before turning away from her. Her nephew-to-the-fifth-power was carrying her head to the reattachment center! "Hey there… Troy, right?"

Her progeny's freckles flared the same orange as his curly head. No mistake, he was a MacIntyre. Troy mumbled, "Yes Ma'am?"

"Am I really getting a body today? Pinch me to make sure it's real!" She added, "Just kidding!" when his pale skin flushed. That shade of red looked painful.

"Oh, to walk again and have arms to hug you!" Troy flashed a tight-lipped smile. Jenny didn't notice. She was too happy just to hear her voice again.

"Can you imagine living—no, existing—with only your brain? I can imagine smell. Sure, there's a nose on my face, but I can't actually… smell. Do you know what I mean?"

He glanced left and right before answering, "Yes ma'am."

Jenny frowned just to feel her skin wrinkle and crinkle—amazing.

Troy cleared his throat. "Um, since the twenty-third century—"

"You mean the twenty-first century! I know, a long time ago." Jenny laughed. "In the twenty-FIRST century, Dr. Leon Poule perfected cryogen—"

Troy shook his head. "No, I'm talking about the twenty-THIRD century, when legislation allowed the use of cryogenically preserved brains to provide energy."

Jenny shivered at the ominous tone of his words (though she relished feeling her cheeks jiggle). "Energy? Whoa, slow down. Energy! Like batteries?"

Troy continued. "Thawed cryogenic brains can power and maintain all the lights, heat, electronics--heck, if you get the right adaptor, you can even power a transport--plus your home for a year on just one brain! Imagine!" Troy beamed at her.

"Do you know how excited I was to discover our family, The MacIntyres, actually inherited a cryogenic head?" Jenny heard his excitement. He pushed her gurney faster.

"I paid to be preserved to gain a body!" Jenny shouted.

"Aunt Jenny, you're more appreciated as a head. Trust…." He crashed into another gurney rounding a corner. "Aw, fuck ME!"

Jenny's head smacked against the weakened acrylic, the force tumbling her off the gurney and onto the composite tile floor. A zipping crackle zapped her right ear as she watched a zigzag line glide then crack wide in front of her face. She gulped for oxygen.

"No, no, no, No, NO!" was the second to the last phrase Jenny heard.

A squeaky female voice pleading, "I'm sorry! It was an accident!" was the last.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009


NaNoWriMo is a demanding... cretin (you thought I was going to say lover.. no love here in week #2!). Anyhow...

I took a break from my strange disc found by a metal detector and now in the hands of a bored housewife rather than the alien booked on InterGalactic Flight 1101... and tried to work 'errant' 'hanker' and 'murky' into a story. Enjoy.


I sit on the hard slats of the wooden folding chair, staring at the five—no, make that ten- o’clock shadow—of Bigsworth, or Bozsmouth, or whatever the hell his name is. The harsh fluorescent lights tinge his skin a sickly green. He’s a fucking whiner. He loved crack more than his old lady, his children, his six figure job… whatever. He lost it all and now he’s looking for redemption in the murky depths of a Styrofoam coffee cup. The one perk of Wednesday group therapy: burnt coffee. I hate that mud but by Wednesday morning I’m hankering for it. Maybe that’s how they get us to go to therapy… drug the joe.

“Joe? Would you like to share with us this evening?” I grunt no. Maybe later.

The brassy blonde next to Bigmouth, the one with the deep creases above her lips, deep from puckering them around cigarettes and god knows what else for the past forty years, says in her gravelly voice how sure, she lost it all, gave it away really, but she could do what she fuckin’ had to because of vodka and Quaaludes—that gave her strength. She spreads her legs; I get an errant view of a dick poking between the tear in her orange coveralls.

I never sipped, snorted, smoked or shot up. I have a carton of cigarettes back in the cell and a modified toothpaste tube. I wink at brassy, chin-chuck toward Bigmouth. Yeah, I'll share with them how I got here. Later.

Friday, November 6, 2009

six small meals

Today, I have six shorts live at The last story is a tribute to my parents, who after almost 50 years of marriage, still love each other unconditionally.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Three Word Wednesday

At the prodding (wheedling, cajoling, borderline nagging) tone of my new writer friend Thom Gabrukiewicz, I have tried my hand at Three Word Wednesday. Briefly, Thom provides three words and anyone who is up to the challenge incorporates those three words into a cohesive story, posts it on a blog, and then sends a link in the comments section @

November 4th's words: Karma, Obey and Wither.

Here goes:

Turn Around, Tadpole!

"Prettyprettyprettypretty pul-eeze? Show mommy how you can be a daddy." She stopped to pretend to suck her thumb. "Mummy wuvs her sweet-ums."

Alton hated it when she talked baby talk. "Forever" was indeed a very long time, and becoming longer, exponentially so, with each passing month. He didn't get those men that said their wives bloomed during pregnancy, became glowing, sensuous goddesses. All he saw when he stared at Brittany's swelling belly was a manatee. That tadpole of his, the one he learned existed during junior high school sex-ed class, that one out of a million that waited those fourteen years since junior high to obey the laws of procreation; it probably high-fived all the other tadpoles before the mighty swoosh!—before it swam against the odds and left its flagellating buddies in the dust to impregnate that insidious egg. His tadpole fulfilled its karma and helped form the seahorse-image in the first ultrasound, which then grew into an alien-headed frog, metamorphosed into a… didn't matter what it looked like; all he knew was what it transformed his petite, feminine, sexy wife into a lumbering, sea cow. A sea cow that barked baby talk.

"Altee, Altee, cock's-in-free!"

Didn’t she understand that tone made his dick wither rather than grow? Alton focused on her pouting lips and tried to ignore her pendulous breasts; her once delicate fingers, swollen into Vienna sausages, stroking her distended stomach. He refused to let his stare wander to the foot of the bed where her cankles rested. Alton bit his lips, his physical effort to check his mental disgust. Brittany smiled.

"Aw, you're so sweet! You won't hurt me. It's karma, me getting pregnant. Us Winslows, we're fertile and we're from sturdy stock. My Grammy had fourteen children! Yessirree, fourteen pregnancies. Imagine that?"

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Under Construction

Yes, whatever that means, I am constructing this site. I hope to watch the tutorial by the end of this week and at least post one story that directly relates to Eldritch Way.

Eldritch Way, someday, will be a collection of short stories that all relate, in one way or another, to this fictional, shop(pe)-filled street. Some stories are complete; some still float over my head or inside my head or, well, who knows where stories float to when you don't give them your attention.

Also, once I figure it out, watch for links to some really great writers and blogs that I have encountered along the way. Oh look! A sale at Escapades--talk about jumping inside a story! Gotta go now.

And for my fellow NaNoWriMo-ers STOP READING RANDOM BLOGS AND WRITE YOUR 1667!