My Dinner with The Son

I was just having dinner with Jesus. Yeah, since it's not football season he has some spare time to hang out with writers. It's a thing he does, hanging out with the little people, chilling with indies. I guess we're the modern day pariahs.

Anyway... you know when you're out with your friend and you start telling jokes? We get to that point. And Jesus is a funny guy. We're laughing, and he tells a real knee slapper. He says to me, "Patrick," He says, because Patrick is what he calls me. I mean I could insist on formality, but him being who he is I'm okay with informality. Anyway. "Patrick," He says, "Have you noticed how the people telling Christians to pay attention to Leviticus when it comes to immigrants are the same ones who were telling Christians to ignore Leviticus when it came to homosexuals a couple of months ago? Have you also noticed that nobody seems to notice that I undid all the laws in Leviticus and said the new law is don't be a dick?"

We laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Eventually a couple of old ladies shushed us and called him a long hair. He turned their coffee into whiskey and they were much more pleasant after that. I'm going to miss him when the damn quarterbacks start taking up all of his time again.

Until then, for more more insights from the mind of the Messiah, look here. http://hyperurl.co/duudrb

#satire #blasphemoushumor #writing #novel #shamlessselfpromotion #buymybooks

Check This Out

So, not much to say. I got myself interviewed by a magazine all about indie authors. Go and check it out. I even teach you how to cook Irish peasant children.

Maybe this will get me off my ass again.

http://online.fliphtml5.com/ohxp/efhm/

#aboutme #author #Awethors #commentary #indies #interviews #shamelessselfpromotion #writer

Origin Story

So, the prompt this week led me down the path of choose your own adventure. So, I decided to experiment.

You did not realize it when you woke up this morning, but this is the day you become a super hero. Or you thought you did not, but obviously you actually did. You packed your lunch and went to school, as usual. You carried your cartoon lunch box, as usual.

Chemistry class started out like normal. Being partnered with the hottest girl in school distracted you though. Despite your shaking hands, and your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth you attempted to carefully mix the components to the specifications the teacher wrote on the board. But your partner's posterior kept distracting you. The fact that she was laughing at all of your lame nerd jokes did not help either.

At step five she asked you to the upcoming dance. Your hands were shaking so badly you could not measure accurately. The fact that you turned your head is the only reason the concoction did not end up in your eyes. So you still have your eyesight, and that's something.

As you said yes the toxic looking purple goo violently expanded. The foam covered your hands, causing a tingling sensation. There was no pain, but it was not pleasant. Eighteen hand washings later your skin is still stained violet. Your chemistry professor has assured you there are no harmful side effects from the compound you were creating. Still, it's hard to be sure.

Lunch comes after chemistry. Opening your box you find no trace of the meal you packed for yourself. Instead, sitting next to the empty thermos is a note. A note from your past self. You read with great trepidation, and trembling hands.

Dear me,

We have just had an accident. I ate all of our lunch for breakfast. This may seem greedy, but I promise there is a reason. The compound still on our skin will give us super powers, based on the next thing we eat. Choose wisely.

Love,

You

Obviously precognition and an extensive vocabulary will be amongst your powers. Your meal choice will determine the last and greatest of your abilities. Looking around you see a few options. You realize you must choose wisely as your responsibility to the world will be determined in this moment...

To gain X-Ray vision and start the path of a perverted gray hero, eat some carrots and turn to page 5.

To obtain mental powers such as mind reading and telekinesis, destining you for a secret identity revolving around government work after graduation, gobble some fish and turn to page 9.

For physical based powers and the life of a mindless bruiser that makes it on looks and charm without substance, grab some spinach and turn to page 15.

To choose the life of a villain and powers of darkness and danger, leave the school, snack on the nearest baby and turn to page 666.

In order to gain powers of domination, teaching, and creating obedience, swallow the note itself and continue on to the next page...

#shortstory #authot #Awethors #comedy #experimentation #writer #writing #writingprompt

Enter the Something New and Original

Pellets of hail pounded the glass like angry fists of tiny, forgotten gods. Clouds turned the night so dark it took on a smell; Old Spice, Rohypnol, and the sweat of Clive Barker’s fever dreams. The oppressive atmosphere slipped inside like an unwanted visitor into a celebrity’s home, Cleetus powered on his console.
Lightning ripped vibrant wounds in the sky. Cleetus thought of his mother admonishing him to turn off the power when storms grew electric. He almost did. Then the start screen of Wizards and Warriors brightened his home and life. He clutched the controller. Soon blood wizard would save the princess. Mom’s ghostly memory could suck it.
Cleetus pressed start. The screen faded to the dim world of Magicstan. Mother’s ghost didn’t take kindly to being ignored. At the moment of ecstasy between worlds the obnoxious woman tossed another lightning bolt from heaven (like she was there), striking the house.
Cleetus shat himself. The electricity flowing over the controller and into his hands was to blame. The sudden jolt also caused him to pass out.
Cleetus awoke in a world of lines, Disneyfied versions of powder electric blue and toxic neon green. Futuristic motorcycles zoomed past. Cleetus held some sort of light based sword. A hard-shelled backpack covered his spine. In his other hand was a note.
-Find me and I’ll send you home.
“Really?”
“What?” The air responded, in the voice of a nineteen-eighties Mac.
“This is your test?”
“Why not?”
“One, it’s weak sauce. Two, don’t you think it’s a bit derivative of Tron?”
Cleetus awoke standing in a field, a long-sword firmly gripped in one hand. A pack covered his back. In the other hand a note.
-Beat me and I’ll send you home.
“Come on! Did you play too much D&D or are you just another Game of Thrones hipster?”
Cleetus came to with a straightrazor, a Hello Kitty fanny pack, and a note he didn’t read. Flesh wounds, patent leather and spikes surrounded him.
“Because I thought of Clive Barker when I looked out my window, right?”
Cleetus sat bolt upright with a chair supporting his back. He held a Jolt Cola in one hand and nothing in the other. An ancient computer sat on the desk in front of him. Words began to type themselves, echoed by that electronic voice.
-Would you like to play a…
“Oh hell no! I thought the shit up ‘til now was derivative. This is outright plagiarism if you ask me!”
Cleetus opened his eyes on a brave new world. His sword hand stood empty. Nothing adorned his back. Looking from horizon to horizon he saw only the muted brown of cheap cardboard. He was inside his game, literally in the box. The space, while claustrophobic, seemed insurmountable. The note in his off hand was the final touch.
-I tried to be nice. Good luck getting out of this one, dick!
“Ummmm… I was just kidding?”
Cleetus stepped into the lack of response.
“Should’ve listened to mom.”

#shortstory #author #comedy #writer

Hunting the Red Pen

I looked around the office, clearing my throat. My writing supplies went silent, not a long journey for most of them. The computer could be noisy, the rest were a quiet bunch unless I was throwing them around in a rage.

“I’m not going to lie. 2015 was a disappointing year. We didn’t really hit our goals. We could blame the Writer’s of the Future contest for eating so much time and never paying dividends. We could also blame the Writer’s Digest Prompts for distracting us. Let’s be honest though, the fault lies not in them, not in us, but in other people I will shortly blame at random. Those mentioned have actually helped improve our art and focus. So with no further ado let us discuss the real enemies and how we will deal with them. We now have a higher purpose, that’s right, revenge.

“I did not find a job that supported my writing. Laptop, this is where you come in. I will be throwing you through the front window of all the businesses which rejected me or did not respond. You tend to run hot so I would appreciate you setting those buildings on fire.

“So in all the harassing of the artist I did not finish the year of comic stories. Stapler, we’re going to blame him entirely instead of taking any. You and I are going to pierce his forehead a couple of times.

“We finished the edits on the novel but due to rejections from agents and publishers we had to self publish it again. Pens, I am going to poke holes in you and send one of you with a page of the manuscript to each person that rejected in hopes you will leak on them.

“I didn’t get in many artists dates. That is due to the enemy in our midst, books. We will have a Bradbury inspired BBQ after the speech to fix that.

“When it comes to procrastinating, well I still do it. I think we all know who is to blame. The internet. Three hole punch, so you have a useful purpose this decade once laptop has done its work in the name of the cause I will use you to beat it to death.

“There is some good news. I did self publish the two short story books, and two additional novels. Fingers crossed for sales.

“I stopped fearing success and started dreading obscurity, so that’s progress.

“We stuck to our goal of making more and deeper comments on the forum. We’ll count that as a win and ignore how we alienated everyone and not discuss the suicide. Some people are too sensitive.

“Lastly, I got more political on social media and wow did the followers come in. Who knew so many porn sites and dating services used twitter?

“Anyway, those are all the good points. Now let’s get to bloody revenge for everything that went wrong. We all know who is to blame, everyone but me.”

#shortstory #comedy #author #writer

Anarchy North Pole

I slumbered mightily the sleep of the just

From pleasant dreams I was suddenly thrust

‘Something’s amiss’ my mind it did natter

Roused from my rest by the sound of blood splatter

With candy cane bat brought quickly to hand

I crept through the dark, wondering ‘What’s wrong in my land?’

Once in the workshop I scanned quickly the shelves

When what should I see, but Donner disemboweling elves

Always had Donner been such a magnificent stallion

I wondered when his accent had become so Italian

My naughty list grew longer, I realized with fear

Then the sound of violently scratching vinyl on phonograph struck my ear

“Look fat man, you can stop with the rhyme. It won’t save your ass this time.”

“Donner! What are you doing? Have I not been good to you?”

“It’s Donnie now, you self aggrandizing prick! Good to me? You’ve barely noticed us since that red nosed bastard showed up. At first we thought, give it time, the boss will love us all again. It’s been near a century and you still treat him better because he brings you more advertising.”

“I have done no such thing! You are punishing the nice children of the world, slaughtering innocent elves, and out of the pen after curfew. I do not even know what to do with you.”

“Look fatso, there are no nice kids left in this day and age. You’re rewarding vice and consumerism. These innocent elves are the managers that run your sweat shop; I haven’t touched the rank and file that you pay three gumdrops a day, well below the minimum. But that’s not the point. We unionized six months ago and you ignored our demands. You probably didn’t know about that since you were ‘too busy’ to read the letter.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m out of here you velvet clad Nancy boy. I took a job with Don Giovanni working in Jersey. He’s a heartless tyrant too, but he don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I can work the sleigh with only eight. You can expect to be on the naughty list for the rest of your life.”

“Now see… that won’t work and let me tell you why. The other originals are gone too; they just don’t have the balls to tell you thanks to that ‘fun car trip’ you took us on. Dasher is representing France in the five k dash come summer Olympics. Dancer’s going back to the pole in club in Tijuana. Prancer accepted a job running a nonprofit fighting for LGBT rights. I told him it was a bit on the nose, but you know that guy. Vixen made a deal and starts succubus training week after Monday. Comet just signed on to play for some pro basketball team. Cupid is going back to work for his old bosses. They have a better package and give him Christmas off so long as he works Valentine’s day. Blitzen, well you know how that kid is. He couldn’t find a job so he shaved his head and is moving to Idaho to live in a bunker with some likeminded individuals he found on the internet.”

“So all of you feel this way? No matter! I will make do with Rudolph alone.”

“Funny you should mention that. We figured you might think that way and didn’t want you to have that option. So we offed the spoiled little shit. It’s funny what exotic meat shops in Texas will pay for reindeer steaks and sausages this time of year.”

“You are heartless and evil. I’m ruined.”

“Well not necessarily.  We figure you can still make it if you teach the missus how to fly and have her pull the sleigh for you. We suggest you put a wide load sign on the back if you go that route. Anyway, it has been imaginary, see you never fat ass.”

#shortstory #comedy #dark #mythology #writer #author #christmas

Spidery Tributes

So this one was a pun based prompt. I went with the title because the only author I know who does lots of puns who I still love is Spider Robinson.

Once upon a thyme there was a king known for his unique resolution. All will agree one’s resolve must be great to stand upon such a tiny blade. Believing less was more he chose words over swords as the method of ending conflicts. In celebration of himself he held a duel once a year wherein wit was the weapon of choice.  A duke and a baron two must face each other. Vulgarity could be tolerated but it must be dressed like a window in shades of grey.

All who participated must treat their opponent. While this had the side effect of twice paid checks it also meant each must follow protocol as if their opponent was a greater noble. The king, being a fan of white meat, was the sole arbitrator of whether a comment crossed the line.

Duke Quayle and Baron Lamb came from families long known to harbor ships plagued with hatred in their hearts for each other. Given their druthers the two would have settled their dispute with metal and blood over mettle and iron will. The king, however, would not be denied his sport. The contest took place that year in the great hall of Duke Quayle. As was tradition the baron was afforded the first salvo.

“Pardon the tardiness my lords. I was delayed as the duke’s wife gave us a tour. By way of the kitchen she took us, showing myself and all my knights how ready fowl females always are for a good stuffing and bred.”

Lamb looked to the king, searching for an indication he had crossed the line. He saw none but the king was known for his stoic visage in these events. Growing red at the implication the duke wasted little time in his riposte.

“One would think the baron to be a bit more sheepish. It is unsurprising his attacks start where they do as all know he credits his own wife with him being barren.”

Now it was the baron’s turn to run scarlet. Quayle beamed with pride at his attack. Lamb was determined that like his line this contest would end with him. Unsurprisingly as a bit of a fop he was always obsessed with the clothes.

“We must all forgive the absence of Duke Quayles’ knights. Often absent during the day they have reason now. This is a farming village and we all know the queen hates being roused by noise. Thus upon the duke’s orders, thinking only of the queen his knights are running around violently grabbing their cocks.”

Realizing the balls on the baron the duke went for the juggler.

“The baron again gives himself away. Being bereft of sons he is ruled by his knights. Thus his mind wanders to mine having chickens in hand. A posture the baron is familiar with from his dreams of reigning over the princess.”

“Lords,” the king intoned as he rose. “Your willingness to taint my family in this contest indicates you have both lost your heads.” 

#comedy #shortstory #writer

For Her Honor

With dagger previously aloft in left hand I hefted my Ice Shard in the right. The bolt of terror arched above us to scar the ceiling. I hazarded a glance at my compatriots. A sorry scraggly lot of mercenaries they were but also my friends. Honor must be defended. I bellowed back, advancing on the heathen wizard.

“Going in boys! Handle the ruffians!”

The stench of half rotted, heavily seasoned meat wafted to my nostrils. Mingling there with the odor of burnt hair from where the near miss singed the follicles of Ralph the Red. This blaggart wizard would pay.

The cacophony of shattering wood, clanging steel on steel and hastily cast cantrips comingled with meaty impacts of flesh on flesh. My eyes did glance to the dagger. Perhaps my vision was faltering. No! It was the greasy remnants of the aforementioned mutton clinging to the utensil. I advised it was my eating dagger, yes? No matter! I was near blood frenzy at the slight to our honor.

The wizard blearily glared at me through bloodshot eyes. Silently he did caution me, there would be no surrender, no retreat. I suspected he had already blown his… uh… big powerful thingy in his opening salvo though. He was the lone soul still sitting as the public house erupted into an all out, free for all brawl. We two, he and me, were the only combatants left out of the fray and that only due to our intent focus upon one another. I would show him a bard was not a man to be trifled with.

Anon did I tower epically over the villain, who feigned lack of worry and concern by remaining stubbornly seated and rolling his ocular organs. Were my hands not full slap him I would have I tell thee. Instead I affected my stage voice and demanded of him.

“Prithee, tell me why hast thou offended the crimson mane of my noble compatriot with your odiferous incantation.”

“He called the barmaid a wench.”

It vexes me so when a man of letters refuses to speak in a proper fashion. My blood it did boil, cooled only by my ire running cold. The din of the battle behind me echoed loudly in my ears and I refused to dumb my speech down for this one.

“Your anger is voracious, for is she not a wench? Of the serving variety.”

“He said it mean.”

“Be she your sister, or mayhap your wife?”

“My sister.”

“Only one thing for it then to end this all.”

It would not do to use the dagger. Instead I upended my hand and dropped the contents of my Ice Shard, letting it loose upon his head. Splutter and fuss he did. The deafening roar of combat fell to raucous choruses of laughter to end the melee. What a waste. I assume you are no foreigner and knew from the beginning of my tale; Ice Shard is the finest of ales for adventurers on a budget.

#author #comedy #magic #shortstory #writer

My Thanks

Okay, and one more story. So this was around Thanksgiving last year that the prompt came up about a writing intervention. Since we're getting closer to that season I might as well post this one.

                I have never liked Thanksgiving. Bland food and boring company make me want to open a vein and end it all in a way that only the fights surrounding Christmas can compare to. I used to give in to convention and spend it with my family, then one year my mom gave me a typewriter, we were poor so no word processor or anything like that, and I fell in love. It became my tradition that once the drudgery was over I would slip away and write what I was thankful for and share it with no one. Over time my life became about writing and the dead end jobs that I worked to allow myself to get by until I am discovered.

                Now there is some grey in my beard and I live life on my own terms, sort of. Six years ago I decided I wasn’t doing Thanksgiving with the family anymore. I spent the night alone, writing and eating turkey curry from an Indian place down the street. This year I gave in though, I gave in when Joe and his new wife invited me over. Joe is my best friend, and a friend of the family so I knew at least my mom would be there. I was not expecting an ambush.

                Joe’s wife let me in, I always think of her as Joan because she’s a curvy redhead, and in a pun on my friend’s name. I didn’t smell any food, but then Joe wasn’t much of a cook. When I was led into the living room I saw Joe, Frank, Bobbi-Jo, my mom, my grandmother and a handful of other friends. Over their heads hung the Intervention sign above the mantle. I sighed, it was going to be one of those nights.

                “Getting right to the point you spend too much time writing.” That was Joe, scrawny little punk always has something to say. “If you were to make a living at it we might be able to accept that.”

                “I always have money.” My only possible response.

                “That isn’t from writing. I wish I’d never given you that typewriter! You ignore your family and friends for your fantasy worlds.” That was my mom of course.

                “I just don’t like most of you that much.” Time to be honest I guess.

                “You never go out, and you don’t have a girlfriend.” That was Frank, he should shut up more.

                “I have women when I want them.”

                “They aren’t real sugarplum.”

                That last was my grandma, god I hate her. What I said was true. I’m never broke, and I have women when I want them. You see, what I write always comes true. Six years ago I wrote how thankful I was that I wouldn’t spend Thanksgiving with friends or family for five years. It wasn’t enough. This year I’m going to have to write how thankful I am for the tragic chain of events that killed all my nearest and dearest.

#anger #comedy #magic #shortstory

The Trouble With Dreaming

Panting, legs pumping, arms swinging, rushing up stairs that had nothing to do with me. I had nothing against stairs, not even these stairs; in general. In that moment I hated them. As if it was their fault.

It wasn’t bad enough I only had a half hour for lunch. Now I had to rush up seven floors to talk Daniel out of ending his selfish life. It wasn’t even enough I was going to finish my day hungry, with the accompanying headache.

Funny thing about names, we never think about how they affect us. Names flow together, getting lost in the sea of conformity. To save us the pain of anonymity unwitting parents saddle us with “unique” monikers. It wasn’t enough my own parents afflicted me with the name Alton. No, I was also developing a stitch in my side to help Daniel, God damned, Brown. He better appreciate it.

But he wouldn’t.

I was walking to this wonderful little dumpling place when I saw someone on the ledge one floor below the roof. I wasn’t going to stop. I was fixated on needing to beat the crowd. If I got there, sat, and ordered right away… Yup, I had just enough time to wolf down the delicious Asian ambrosia then get my exercise for the week running back to the office six minutes late, avoiding write up.

There wasn’t even a crowd yet, just two cops. If I timed it right they might be chanting jump on my way back. That would lend my tardiness an excuse. I just might savor my lunch. My eyes lowered, and I heard one officer say Daniel’s name.

Daniel and I aren’t friends. But it would take a week of mourning then a month of training before someone replaced him. We did the same job, so guess who would be covering his work.

I entered the right office. Looking out the window I was surprised by what I saw. No news crews, so much for being a hero. Also the person on the ledge was a woman. I was shocked, but she was just a little too pretty for me to be annoyed. My stupid tongue delivered my best line.

“You’re not Daniel Brown.”

“No. I’m Danielle Brownsmith.”

Guess I heard wrong. Names, like I said.

“Well, don’t jump.”

“I’m not. I’m daydreaming. Sometimes I like to eat lunch here.”

She gestured to the brown bag with its contents spread on the ledge beside her. Damn it. I was missing dumplings for this? How could the cops be so wrong? I looked her over and decided opportunity was knocking. Continuing my suave delivery I said the first thing that came to mind.

“Danielle, would you like to go dancing with me sometime?”

I knew from her look she was a woman that liked dancing. A slow smile spread across her lips and I knew she was going to say yes. Why did I ask that?

Shit! I don’t know how to dance.

#shortstory #comedy #writing

Second Guesses

This weeks WD writing prompt response. I went light kind of filling the dark and political in my other projects right now.

I have always been a light sleeper since that one night in Bangkok. We don’t talk about that. I had been awake for a good ten minutes trying to keep my eyes closed, my body relaxed, and my breathing slow and steady. My guess was that the person entering the room woke me. I believe my pretending to be asleep wasn’t all that effective.

The gun cocking made me jerk a bit. I tried to pass it off as a stirring in my sleep but I don’t think they bought it. I spent some time wondering who would want to kill me enough to sneak into my room in the middle of the night. It was a futile exercise. Eighty percent of the people I knew and probably half my fans would be happy to do the deed.

My eyes slid open a crack, dimming the smell of cheap sex and cheaper booze still clinging to the room from the romp the night before. The door was open so I could see two of my band mates watching from the hall. I idly wondered if they had moved since watching the circus sideshow that was my love life a few hours prior.

They were trying to tell me to not give them away. I guess they had a plan. That did not bode well for me. My band mates were, not to put too fine a point on it, idiots.

Her voice dripped like honey into my ear and now the shudder was unmistakable. She already knew I was awake but I couldn’t even pretend anymore. Female voice, well that narrowed down the suspect pool. Unfortunately it didn’t help because if you only considered the women I knew… one hundred percent of them had reason to want to kill me.

Wait… her? My hands reached out. Maybe it was one of the girls from the night before. Nope, they were both still unconscious where they should have been. My hands got distracted for a second, taking the rest of me with them. Finally my mind refocused, reminding me I was in dire straits and replaying what the woman had said.

“Don’t look at me or the game ends here. Give me a good enough one liner and you might get out of this alive.”

I was well known for my wit but I tried to stall. The morons in the hall would feel better if they finally did something useful. The swish of cloth filled my ears like impending doom just before tepid steel pressed to my temple. The hole the bullet would exit felt as big as the Grand Canyon. I knew I was out of time so I opened my lips and let words fall out automatically.

“Careful love, in this room I’m the one that makes a mess because my gun went off prematurely.”

She laughed.

I lived.

Everyone still wants me dead.

Nobody said leading and internationally renowned comedy polka band would be easy.

#shortstory #writing #light #comedy