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Category: My Writing

Fiction: To Be The Man

Fiction: To Be The Man

To Be The Man

“Dude?”

“What?”

“Are you really going to eat that?”

“This? Yeah, that was my plan. Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a little *whistles*”

“Are you saying my breakfast choice is gay?”

“A little, yeah.”

“It’s a croissant.”

“I KNOW. And don’t say it like that. There’s a ‘t’ in there at the end. Pronounce it like an American.”

“I just never knew a pastry could have a sexual orientation.”

“Well, it does. And yours is playing for the wrong team.”

“Have you ever tried one? Put a little butter on there and you’re good to go. They go excellent with tea.”

“Dude you’re embarrassing me. Do you have to hold out your pinkie like that? There’s some hot waitresses here.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well there are. People are gonna think we’re a couple or something. You can sabotage it for yourself, but don’t ruin it for me too.”

“Don’t you think about anything other than picking up women?  Anyway, what’s so manly about that monstrosity you ordered?”

“Are you kidding me? Death by Omelet? You got five eggs, half a pound of bacon, three cups of cheddar cheese, ham, onion, and whatever else they could find. Fried! Better than that, if you finish it in an hour you get half off your next meal.”

“That’s not breakfast, that’s a cry for help.”

“And it only cost me six bucks. I won’t have to eat the rest of the day.”

“That’s because you’ll be dead, big man.”

“Whatever. Dude, put that pinky finger down and check this chick out. I think she’s headed our way.”

“Hey.  I was sitting over there and couldn’t help but notice we ordered the exact same thing. Don’t they have the best croissants here? Flaky, but not too dry. I love how they practically melt in my mouth.”

“Um, yeah.  Goes well with a nice cup of tea too.”

“Totally. Have you seen some of the other stuff on the menu, though? I’d hate to see the person who would order that omelet thing. Disgusting.”

“…”

“ Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t mind him. He’s under the impression that women are only impressed by men that eat large quantities animal products.”

“Yeah, not so much. Hey, do you come here often? Crap, that sounded lame. I just thought maybe we could hang out sometime. I mean, they have that two for one deal on Tuesdays.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Great.  Here’s my cell number.”

“Cool.”

“Well, I gotta go. My gymnastics coach will kill me if I’m late for practice. Have to get my stretching in. You know how bad traffic is on campus.”

“Yeah, it sure is…terrible. Nice meeting you.”

“Nice meeting you too. Don’t forget to call me. Oh, and you might want to check on your friend. He doesn’t look so well. Too many eggs maybe?”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine in a day or two. Once all the grease makes its way through his system.”

“Dude, do not look at me like that. I swear I’ll punch that smirk right off your face.”

“I wouldn’t do that. You better conserve your energy if you plan on eating that whole thing.”

“You know what? She probably gave you a fake phone number. She wasn’t that hot, either.”

“I think I’ll take my chances. Hey, why don’t you let me get you a croissant? Looks like you could use a little more to eat.”

“Ugh. I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Fiction: It’s Hard out Here for a Baby

Fiction: It’s Hard out Here for a Baby

It’s Hard out Here for a Baby

Life isn’t easy for a baby. No one seems to understand me. Sure every once in a while they do something amusing and I flash them a smile. Overall, however, these so-called grownups, the people are supposed to be in charge, don’t seem to know what they’re doing. I hope it isn’t like this my whole life.

Just the other day, my parents were preparing for a trip to the grocery store. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy watching them run around the house, gathering diapers and bottles, and always forgetting something. What makes me mad is when they strap me into that horrible chair, which if its use wasn’t banned by the Geneva Convention, it should have been. The seatbelts always scratch my neck and keep me from touching my toes, which I would have you know I just recently discovered. On top of this, they pick me up and put my stupid chair in the car backwards, so the only thing I get to look at on the trip is the back of the car!

Whoa, look at that! It’s my hand…Cool…

Sorry, where was I? Oh yeah. I was strapped into the seat on our way to the grocery store. I cried for a while just to let them know I wasn’t happy with the whole seating arrangement. After that, I figured I could use a nap and just as I was dozing off, the parents were jerking me out of my car seat and into my stroller. This contraption might have been a pleasant change if it wasn’t so filthy from being in the trunk of the car all day.

By the way, what’s up with the grocery store? It all seems pointless to me. Can’t you people be like the rest of us and eat the natural way? I don’t get my food off some shelf at the Piggly Wiggly, if you know what I mean.

My parents managed to go through every aisle of the store and pick out all of their food without banging my stroller on anything too often. Of course they forgot the one item they were buying for me. I tried to tell them they forgot diapers, but they just wouldn’t listen. They thought I just wanted to be held. Whatever the reason for the miscommunication, it means in a few hours I will be strapped into the seat again and paraded around the store.

Anyhow, I haven’t eaten in two hours and fifty-five minutes, and it doesn’t seem like anybody notices. Enough of this, someone better feed me soon… “Waaaaaaaa!”

Gnash Liven – A Character That Never Got a Story (yet?)

Gnash Liven – A Character That Never Got a Story (yet?)

A while back, Author Chuck Wendig  posted a flash fiction challenge to create a character in 250 words or less. This one was mine.

Gnash Liven had a molten and unrelenting hatred in her heart, a wooden spike strapped to her thigh, and a scar, about a quarter-centimeter thick, tracing from the tear duct of her left eye to just below her earlobe. And, occasionally, Jim Nightblade’s balls in her hand.

Gnash also had case of lager in the fridge (those college boys can shove that hoppy bullshit straight up their collective asses), and her legs propped on her desk. Her rage burned on.

It’s a good day to die, she thought, polishing the blade of her silver long-sword. It was a Tuesday after all, and Tuesdays are bullshit, lacking the stones to go full-on Monday and too damned far away from Friday. Nobody hates Tuesday and that’s a problem because it’s just as awful as the rest.

What she didn’t have is one of those sparkly undead bastards at the end of her blade or impaled on her spike. And that was a problem. That was everyone’s problem. That was humanity’s problem.

We Are Arrived

We Are Arrived

This bit of fiction was part of  I Saw Lightning Fall‘s (blog) Advent Ghosts 2013 shared storytelling event.  100 eerily inspired words.

We Are Arrived

We roam the night, while you rest snug, secure in your bed,

dreaming of video game systems given.

From the beginning, we have amused you with our antics,

Partied with your dolls,

Eaten your foods,

Crept through your house.

Amusing ourselves, biding our time. Earning your trust.

But the jolly fat man in the white trimmed red suit,

he will be replaced.

We are the elves on your shelves, and we do not poo candy canes.

Do Not Touch

Do Not Touch

Do Not Touch
by Paul Liadis

note: This was written as part of a flash fiction writing contest at the blog, The Clarity of Night, back in 2006. Here is a link to the original post. The idea was to write 250 words based on a provided prompt.

“Do not touch” were the words Mark and Elizabeth heard repeatedly regarding the painting that now hung illuminated in the hallway between their bedrooms. Much to Mark’s chagrin, the artwork had accompanied them to their new house.

Though Mark took great care to hide it in the back yard while they packed, his parents had somehow found the painting. Something about the picture made Mark feel uneasy, as though its composition was more than mere canvas and paint. One night in their previous house Mark was on his way to get a glass of water and was sure he heard a girl laugh inside the painting. He now runs past the painting, not willing to chance even a glance at it.

It was Elizabeth who made sure the painting hung in their new house, fishing it out of the bushes out back before they moved.

To a six year old like Elizabeth, “Do not touch” meant “Touch, but make sure Mom and Dad don’t see you.” The sight of Elizabeth mere inches from the painting, softly clutching Winnie the Pooh’s worn hand, startled Mark.

“Elizabeth, you know we’re not supposed to touch that,” Mark whispered forcefully as he approached his sister.

“It’s ok,” answered Elizabeth. “I touched it before.”

Mark ran toward his sister, hoping to stop her from touching the painting. Unfortunately, he was too late. All that remained of his sister was a lonely teddy bear and a giggle from inside the painting.