Category Archives: Stories

Unedited Cat Butt

It’s a bit of a blank character. I’m a document and there is a cat on my lap. I cannot get up. That would be to break the divine contract between man and beast. Loyal beast. The only one who loves me at this moment. There are others who love me but they are filing papers or digging weeds in the garden and so they are not focused on me. My sense of love is one that requires constant focus on me for me to feel it. The cat is (the cat has clicked my mouse while I was at the end of paragraph 2, so now this is the point I must continue from. This might be interesting to look back on, but most likely no one will. It is not an interesting choice, is it? To just follow the demands of chance is a choice, but how much credit can one receive for choosing inaction? A man who wins the lottery does not deserve the same praise as a small business owner who turned a hobby into an empire. Not that my cat is going to turn this paragraph into an empire; just an expierence to be examined. I doubt I will be the examiner, though. I consider myself reflective, but I have such trouble looking back on my own writing. This exercise is an indulgence, if anything, as it removes any blame from my editing skills.

I feel like starting a new paragraph even though I am still within the cat-click parenthetical. There’s really no hope in following that train of thought anymore. I’m just chasing the word “small” across the screen over and over again, killing time until some other interference puts me onto a new track. Oddly, the thought that keeps recurring to me while I waste our time is whether or not I will publish this on Harmless Writing. That’s the kind of self indulgence that concerns me. On the one hand it clearly shows my craving for attention, but… oh dear the cat’s moved again. Her fuzzy butt is on the mouse. I don’t think I’ve jumped cursor though. Where was I? Worried about craving attention. Is that what the blog is? I don’t get sad about the small view numbers — especially when I’ve failed to p (woops, this misclick is my fault, not the cat’s. I can’t bare to go deeper into self indlugence, though, so I’m going to try and pickup where I was talking about Mrs. Dalloway. Sorry.) ut out a story for several months. I know I force Nickie and my mom to read the stories, and they are the pople I’m most interested in talking to anyway. It’s less of an attention seeking activity than it is a measure of my own motivation. The boundary between “folder of junk I typed” and “piece of work” is at its thinnest when pushing prose out to a blog. Still, the ability for others to find it is enough to make me healthily self concious about something other than my feeling of worthlessnes for having not put out any work. It’s trading one anxiety for another, but it’s definitely an upgrade.

That fear of judgement hits me now as I wonder about the consequences of publishing this. I think of some would-be reader stumbling across the first post: a bunch of goblledygook with misspellings and no structure. It’s nothing you couldn’t get from a highschool english class that just read Mrs. Dalloway. The worst part is I paused before writing that book title because I wanted to say “Lady Chatterly’s Lover” though I knew that was wrong. I haven’t read Lady Chat, so I don’t know why it jumped into my mind. I have read Dalloway, though not all the way through. I was supposed to read it for a college english class but by the time the class came around I had only just skimmed the final third. The only interesting stuff happens in the final third. Ok, I’ve jumped back to here. Anyway, I just skimmed the end and picked out quotes during the classroom discussion, and yet I still felt I understood the book better than anyone else in that class. That’s mainly because there were some real dumbos, thogh, who always drown out the people I was interested in talking to. I can’t remember much of the book now, anyway. I just remember feeling smart in that discussion and a bit dissappointed in everyone else. Maybe they didn’t read it either — there’s always those times of year when everyone defers things as “close enough” in the joint assumption that no one else is putting in the effort anyway. I like to be the person is pushed through that kind of week defense, but I’m not. I’m not.

Pause.

Pause to cheat.

Pause to think of something interesting to say. Only, instead of thinking of that I thought about leftover pizza in the fridge and how I might get some coffee. Mom, I’m out of coffee beans. Thanks in advance.

Well now I have to put this on the blog now — I’ve included a shoutout to my mom that will really tickle her fancy.) small but she makesa pleasant weight on my ribs that reminds me she is focused on loving me. And yes she is an animal and her love of me is as much a love of warmth as it as a sign of commitment. So I could be a warm machine and she would sit just the same. I am soft, though. I pet. She reaches out and yawns; that is her loving embrace. And that is all there is.

(Ah! Too much cat but. I ended up here. Though at least it’s on a blank line instead of in a paragraph again. Who knows when I reset and delete this somehow. Perhaps it’s time to end and get some of that pizza. I haven’t had coffee today. I’ve earned coffee, I think.)

It’s too many “ands” up there. That’s the part of my writing style I’m most concerned about. I like to run on. I don’t put complex ideas into sentences, I just chain together a bunch of simple ideas with “ands”. I’ll never be a deep thinker. I’ll never be an interesting writer. Certainly not an “author” by any measure. What do you think, cat? You’ve shifted precarously to rest your cheek on my hand and now I can’t reach the delete key without jarring you. I suppose that’s one reason for writing stream-of-concious. And of course I’ve cheated and deleted. The cat has already moved her head, distracted by some phantom bird outside the window, and I’ve taken that chance to throw in a missing apostrophe or delete the extra “h” I put in “apostrophe”.

 

Why the Grinch Stole Deathsmas

Every Who down in Whoville was calming down after summer
Preparing for a Christmas when the Grinch would not be a bummer.
His heart had grown large and he had learned to behave,
Spending more time in Whoville than he did in his cave.
But one day in the fall he was up on his mountain,
Working with Max to sculpt a Santa-shaped fountain,
When his fond thoughts of winter were interrupted,
By a wails, groans, and moans — oh so disruptive!
“Now what could this be, this sorrowful din?”
“Is Whoville in trouble? Should I check in?!”
He ran to his window in a whip-cracking hurry,
But down below he saw no reason to worry.
The Who’s were giving piggies their fattening treats,
Or sharpening the knives used to carve roast beasts. Continue reading →

Night Watching

The following story is a bit of erotic fanfiction set in the universe of Terry Pratchett’s Disc World book series. This was written as a companion piece to a birthday cake made by Cliffside Cakes in the form of The Luggage, a character from that series.

Captain Carrot finished undressing and placed his soiled jerkin in a burlap sack labeled “Ye Freshest And Most Cleaniferous Launderette Demonique” which he then hung out of his bedroom window. It felt good to let his diamond-cut abs air out after a long day of friendly law enforcement. He took a moment to bask in the light of the setting sun, performing an involuntary peck-dance for the crowd of aspiring Mrs. Ironfounderssons gathered in the street below. He failed to hear their sighs of disappointment as he turned away from the window, sat down at his writing desk, and started on a letter:

Dearest Mume and Dad,

I am Pleased to write that the whole business of Commander Vimes being body-swapped with The Librarian of Unseen University, has been resolved. I will miss Commander Orangutan’s insightful, if long-winded Lectures on the nature of Living Well  and Bananas, but I am glad to have Sir Vimes back in Charge. Lady Sybil was the most releived of any of us. The Commander, however, seemed to be taking some time to readjust —

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Aficionado

The following story contains profanity and graphic imagery which may not be suitable for itty bitty babies. This is a loving parody of Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, written for Shipwreck SF. For the live show, each writer is assigned a character to use as the centerpiece of an erotic fan-fiction. I was assigned “The Running of the Bulls” as my character. Enjoy!

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A Night Out

A grand piano on a slightly-raised, circular stage separated the hotel’s dining room from the bar and lounge area. The jazz pianist had been on shift since I checked in at a quarter to six. His energetic, high-tempo numbers had relaxed by the time I came back down for dinner. Was he resting his hands? I wondered. Was this the appetizer music the management paid him to play? Or did dampening the piano make eavesdropping easier for his accomplices with hidden microphones? I took a seat in a leather chair near a corner with a view of the bar as well as the musician’s face. My contact was supposed to be a guest, but it never hurts to keep an eye out for other players in the game.

I passed the time with a glass of cognac and a copy of The Wild Flowers of Britain and Northern Europe. The choice of book worried me. It was a very specific selection: an old print with an easily-recognizable cloth hardcover. These were good qualities for a signal; it was very unlikely to be mistook or coincide with another guest’s reading list. Nor was I concerned that a study of botany might seem out of place for a man in a charcoal suit sitting in a hotel lounge on a Friday night. At times there is no better disguise than that of a man who is trying to appear interesting, and so will be universally ignored.

No, what worried me was the one piece of information I knew about the person I was meeting: her alias, Wild Rose.

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Sprouting Veins

It was only Mother and me in the house back then. I never realized how big our house was until it was empty. I suppose it’s not completely accurate to say the house was empty when there were still two people living there — father would have corrected me on that. But there was an empty bed in my room, and there was only Mother in the master bedroom upstairs. And so the house was half full, but it was only full of us, and we were empty.

I made my bed every morning before I went to school, even though I knew was unnecessary; Mother would just remake it during the day. How long she had been doing this, I was uncertain. She always tucked in the corners until it was uncomfortable, but I didn’t notice the difference until I came home to find the green blanket on my bed. The blue blanket, usually mine, had moved over to cover the empty bed, which was also perfectly made. This occurred after roughly a month of living in an empty house together and, at the time, I assumed it was an innocent mistake. She was grieving, after all. I said nothing then, nor a month later when the blankets returned to their original places.

It was not long, though, before the swapping began happening more often. There would be a week of blue, a few days of green, blue, green, blue, green… until it was my daily routine to come home and find my bed immaculately prepared with the opposite color blanket. The sheets too, I am certain, alternated with this frequency, though they were plain white and provided no evidence as such. I cannot explain the feeling but, somehow, I knew she was trying to get me to sleep in both beds. Months passed and I made no protest against her behavior except, perhaps, by refusing to chase my preferred color. I always slept in my original bed, and I always left it perfectly tidy in the morning.

While Mother’s bed-making habit concerned me, it was entirely consistent with her treatment of the rest of the house. She was increasingly devoting her time to restoring, maintaining, and (to her eye) improving the woodwork in our home. Carpentry was something she had shown no interest in previously but which, she explained, had been her grandfather’s craft. “It is in our blood,” she said. Whether she intended this statement to be a joke, I did not know. To me it seemed a grotesque turn of phrase, meant to remind me of a most unpleasant experience: the day I saw a ghost.

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Your Own Devices

“Jessica, we’ve had a lot of fun together, but I need to be honest: this isn’t what I want anymore.”

I looked down at the cup of coffee she had just poured for me. Would it be impolite to take a sip while I’m telling her this? Is it worse if I don’t drink what she gave me? Her coffee always suited my taste perfectly: creamy, not too sweet. I took a quick gulp, clearing my throat before continuing.

“You’ve been perfect — exactly what I was looking for when we met — but I feel, like, different now. I hope you understand.”

Jessica turned around, setting the hot coffee-pot on the counter. She was calm. Her steel-blue eyes were wide, shining wetly. She reached her hand towards mine.

“Very well,” Jessica stated. “Transaction complete. Please accept the charges for services rendered.”

With a sigh I placed my thumb against the scanner in her palm. I felt the warmth of her latex fingers as they brushed against mine and I tried not to think of the night before. Then my phone buzzed in my pocket, telling me it was over. I let go.

“Goodbye, Jess.”

“Your balance has been updated. Goodbye, Randall.”

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Speaking Volumes

Man, blue windbreaker, cellphone in a pouch around his neck:

I just wanted to tell you about the sound you heard, the sound you thought you heard coming from my phone. You have headphones, the people behind me were talking louder than my phone could be, the sounds you thought you heard-

Me, I don’t realize the kind of person he is:

You think I imagined hearing noises from your phone?

Man, who is older with grey in his thick, black hair. His widow’s peak points down at me like a diving raven as I sit at this table in a cafe. He stands, he steps forward and back, he gestures:

No I don’t want to make it sound like that, I don’t want to argue, I just want to help you. You know we have a lot of technology and a lot of people don’t know how much technology we have and what it can be used for. If at some point in the near future a picture of a government agent appears on your laptop screen there, you should ask for proof. We’re here and there’s satellites above us that can track the devices we’re using. You have headphones, my phone doesn’t go that loud — I wish it would be louder, sometimes, but it’s a cheap phone — you have a nicer phone but you need to know that they’re tracking that. If a picture comes up on your screen, it could be coming from Nigeria. You can’t trust their identity, they can fake that. It’s a setup they try and get you for a scam. That’s what happened to some people in my family. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars is what they got because that’s what they do.

Me? I was so ready to go into argument mode that now I have to forcibly make myself nod and smile. Except, smiling isn’t quite appropriate. Nod and furrow? Just don’t look combative. Don’t ask questions. These are all ways to invite longer explanations:

I see.

Man, speaking at a reasonable pace, and at a reasonable volume. The beautiful woman sitting one table away has stopped typing, but the man doesn’t break eye contact with me:

Yes, they are scammers. That’s the technology in Nigeria and tracking you hear above you in the sky. If anyone tries to get you with an image on your computer screen you need to get them on video phone. You need to see the movement, on video phone, of their lips moving. Icons and names on the computer? Those can all be faked — most people don’t know that, that the technology is like that, and how it works. You have to see the real identity that they can’t fake: this! The face! An image of a badge can be in Photoshop in just a few hours, but if you see their lips move and their face that’s how you can identify them. Even then they have the satellites. They’re tracking you — audio, video — they can adjust what they look like, cater to you with what they say. Especially the old people, they’re more susceptible. That’s how they got my family, maybe I should say, I think. But it’s everything — it could be anything. So I just wanted to let you know that’s how the radio waves can affect your mind with all this technology we have.

Me, wondering if this deep breath meant his lecture was over. I’m thinking I could turn, put my headphones in, ignore him, as if I had never gotten up and asked him to turn the volume of his phone down. I could be writing right now. The cold shoulder might provoke him though. Is it better to let this run its course? How long could that last. I’d better get a drink of water, yes, that’s better and it lets me break eye contact in a non-aggressive way:

I’m sorry to hear that.

Man:

Yes, well, so be on the lookout if, in the near future, the police try and contact you. They could be coming for you — your house, your money, your children — it could be anything you care about. That’s what I want to warn you about.

Me, that drink of water helps clear my head. This is fascinating, actually. What was I even writing, anyway? Something that seemed worth focusing on, I suppose, if I felt the sound of people yelling on a train in a YouTube video was too disruptive. A man is speaking to me now, though, and listening is just as satisfying a use of time as writing. Maybe it helps him feel better, too. I’m giving him my attention happily, although I still don’t know what expression I should be making with my face:

Thank you.

Man, not showing any signs of walking away:

Of course, that’s all I wanted to say. I didn’t come over to argue about the phone, but to let you know how we have all this technology and it interferes with you. Not just with the identities but with what you think and what you see. It’s… you can look this up to find out. A lot of people don’t. So, last thing, I’ll let you know — I’ll ask you: do you know how many satellites we have above us right now. Don’t say. Above the United States — do you know?

Me, shaking my head, gently:

…

Man, pointing to the sky:

Over nine hundred satellites, each equipped with telescopes but also radioscopes — radios. It’s powerful things in the radio spectrum and it’s all around us. They can target us, with electricity and reflecting heat from the sun. Melt a car right in half. You can look up videos of that. They’ll track you, but they track you anyway, so I just wanted to warn you about that. That’s why I came over here.

Me:

Thank you.

Man, looking no less frustrated than when he started talking:

That’s all I wanted to warn you about. Remember the real identity: the face. Yes. Thank you. Alright then.

Me:

Have a good one.

Man, walking back to his table:

Mmhmm.

Me, thinking I can keep my cool until I make eye contact with the beautiful woman at the other table. Her mouth is agape and her teeth are white but she doesn’t really want to talk to me so she breaks her gaze before either of us laugh. We don’t laugh. I don’t know if I’m a bad person for even wanting to laugh. I say nothing:

I will remember, sir. I will try to remember everything you told me. I will count how many times you repeated each piece of advice and each anecdote. I will shame myself for wanting to laugh at you. I will pat myself on the back for diffusing the situation, even though I had no control over your behavior at any point. I will channel the feeling I had when I realized you weren’t an asshole, just crazy. I will try to put that into words, so that others may have the same feeling. And when all of your words have been written and posted to the internet, then as many as five other people may hear your advice. And when that happens, there will be another resource that the government and the people in Nigeria can use to track our lives, sir. And if it turns out you’re right, and my car gets melted in half, well that would make me look like a total dipshit.

Love Never Dies

The following story contains profanity and graphic imagery which may not be suitable for my mom. What started as sort of a joke gift a friend turned into three thousand words about love, death, and dicks. This is an experiment with the genre of “erotic fanfiction” based on the Magic The Gathering universe, though in depth knowledge of the source material is not necessary and should probably be avoided at all costs. Also, shoutout to Shipwreck SF as a continual source of inspiration. Enjoy!

 

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