"GRANOLA IN THE BARREL OF A GUN" is a fast fiction about a man who fights for peace, hates for love and uses patchouli to alleviate world hunger.
Today's spring-board into fiction has come from Marco Cibola, a talented illustrator whose work "has been recognized in national and international publications such as Applied Arts, American Illustration, Juxtapoz, Color, Bail and Arkitip."
As well as this blog.
Yes, that's right, I'm on a break from the two day roll that I was on with "VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ?", the serializedfast fiction that I started on Monday. Today will be a one-off and then in a day or two I'll go back to "VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ?".
But for now enjoy...
Two children walked down the quiet suburban street gnawing on pepperoni sticks. A "twelve packeroni" stuck out from the open Spiderman backpack of the tubbier boy.
"This could be your grandpa's finger !! Ah I'm a zombie !! Arghhh !!" the larger boy belly-laughed through a mouth full of meat which he chomped up and down and up and down on.
"This is your penis," the slimmer boy joked as he bit down on the tiny remaining stub of meat.
Tubby punched his friend in the stomach.
"That's fucking stupid."
A long shadow suddenly fell across the two of them.
"That's no way to chill with a friend, little dude." A greasy haired hippie in a tie-died shirt and scraggly beard stood over them.
"You're not the boss of me," the Tubby boy shouted, spitting out flecks of pepperoni.
"Oh no, I couldn't be. There are no bosses. But I do speak with the authority of those mountains behind me, I've hiked them many times. The grass over there, that's my tightest bud. You see I'm a fucking vigilante for mother earth."
He pulled up his tie-died shirt to reveal the handle of a gun.
"You stop punching your friend and I want you to return those pepperoni sticks to the store. Trade them in for celery sticks or a hug from the clerk. If you don't I swear to mother earth that I will find you."
And the hippie went to lie down for a nap on the grass as the children ran away, leaving a trail of rolling pepperoni sticks behind. A wake of meaty fear.
Today's spring-board into fiction has come from Marco Cibola, a talented illustrator whose work "has been recognized in national and international publications such as Applied Arts, American Illustration, Juxtapoz, Color, Bail and Arkitip."
As well as this blog.
Yes, that's right, I'm on a break from the two day roll that I was on with "VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ?", the serializedfast fiction that I started on Monday. Today will be a one-off and then in a day or two I'll go back to "VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ?".
But for now enjoy...
GRANOLA IN THE BARREL OF A GUN
Two children walked down the quiet suburban street gnawing on pepperoni sticks. A "twelve packeroni" stuck out from the open Spiderman backpack of the tubbier boy.
"This could be your grandpa's finger !! Ah I'm a zombie !! Arghhh !!" the larger boy belly-laughed through a mouth full of meat which he chomped up and down and up and down on.
"This is your penis," the slimmer boy joked as he bit down on the tiny remaining stub of meat.
Tubby punched his friend in the stomach.
"That's fucking stupid."
A long shadow suddenly fell across the two of them.
"That's no way to chill with a friend, little dude." A greasy haired hippie in a tie-died shirt and scraggly beard stood over them.
"You're not the boss of me," the Tubby boy shouted, spitting out flecks of pepperoni.
"Oh no, I couldn't be. There are no bosses. But I do speak with the authority of those mountains behind me, I've hiked them many times. The grass over there, that's my tightest bud. You see I'm a fucking vigilante for mother earth."
He pulled up his tie-died shirt to reveal the handle of a gun.
"You stop punching your friend and I want you to return those pepperoni sticks to the store. Trade them in for celery sticks or a hug from the clerk. If you don't I swear to mother earth that I will find you."
And the hippie went to lie down for a nap on the grass as the children ran away, leaving a trail of rolling pepperoni sticks behind. A wake of meaty fear.
posted by kevin spenst at 11:23 PM
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