The Food Chronicles - part 1Preparing for the food

"The Food Chronicles Parts 1,2 and 3" are examples of me breaking my rule of writing a short story everyday.

I've been rehearsing a play this week, helping out with Music Waste, staying up until four in the morning watching Star Wars, writing an essay, working my Monday to Friday job and yeah... keeping busy.

So for the past three days I present...

The Food Chronicles - part 1
Preparing for the food

I love repetition. I love repetition. I love repetition. I love repetition. I love food more than anyone else you'll ever meet. I'm not a food critic or even a gourmand overflowing with purple prose detailing culinary collusions between various camps of taste buds and a forkfull of food. No, I just want to eat everything I can get my hands on. I would eat my own hands if they were well done, came with the right sauce and grew back right away. I was born a 10 pound glutton ready to eat my way to adulthood and beyond. I love repetition. Chewing on a choice phrase again and again. Chewing on a choice phrase again and again. Chewing on a choice phrase again and again.

The Food Chronicles - part 2
Eatting the food

I love repetition. I love repetition. I love repetition. I love repetition. I love food more than anyone else you'll ever meet. I'm not a food critic or even a gourmand overflowing with purple prose detailing culinary collusions between various camps of taste buds and a forkfull of food. No, I just want to eat everything I can get my hands on. I would eat my own hands if they were well done, came with the right sauce and grew back right away. I was born a 10 pound glutton ready to eat my way to adulthood and beyond. I love repetition. Chewing on a choice phrase again and again. Chewing on a choice phrase again and again. Chewing on a choice phrase again and again.

The Food Chronicles - part 3
Digesting the food

I love repetition. I love repetition. I love repetition. I love repetition. I love food more than anyone else you'll ever meet. I'm not a food critic or even a gourmand overflowing with purple prose detailing culinary collusions between various camps of taste buds and a forkfull of food. No, I just want to eat everything I can get my hands on. I would eat my own hands if they were well done, came with the right sauce and grew back right away. I was born a 10 pound glutton ready to eat my way to adulthood and beyond. I love repetition. Chewing on a choice phrase again and again. Chewing on a choice phrase again and again. Chewing on a choice phrase again and again.

A MOUTHFUL OF MYSTERY

(“A MOUTHFUL OF MYSTERY" is an exceptionally tiny tale of around one hundred words. I wrote it for a certain site that features exceptionally short stories.

Enjoy...)

A MOUTHFUL OF MYSTERY

You masticate the food carefully as there might be a hidden razor blade or used bandage thrown in.

You glance up from a careful study of your food and smile at your date. Her smile is tempered by a look of concern.

“Is everything okay ?”

Your mind teeters on the truth for if you were a gentleman you would have some concern for her safety.

Just then a waiter appears and inquires as to the performance of the food. Keeping your cool, you tell him that everything is to your satisfaction.

You’re alive after all.

You lean across the table and whisper: “Let me tell you about… chefs.”

THE ORGANIZATION OF WOUNDS

(“THE ORGANIZATION OF WOUNDS” is a tiny little tale about somebody getting beaten up. Simple on the outside pummeling but a whole other world of ideas inside.

The title just popped into my head yesterday after school and I figured it was worthy of a tail of a tale.

Enjoy…)

THE ORGANIZATION OF WOUNDS

His face flies up into the direction of the clear blue sky, His eyes circle around in his head. His heart beats hard. His fate is uncertain.

Sammy laughs at how little a fight John has put up.

Thirteen teenagers stand around in a circle shouting out screams of encouragement. They want to be rewarded with a display of pain. They want to see blood spew out in colors clear to understand. They want to know the physical reality of this world.

Sammy smashes John’s head against his knee which ignites a chorus of “fuck yeah”s.

Meanwhile in John’s mind there is a picture of a pyramid of his body parts. Right now, his head is at the top of it, but just below is his mid-section and below that is his jaw. He doesn’t want to lose track of the order of pain.

His head is full of systems of organization encompassing fights, breakfasts and favorite sit-coms.

He will be anal retentive to the end of time.

MAO SAY WHAT ?!?

(“MAO SAY WHAT ?!?" is today’s fortune cookie sized tale.

The instructions for today’s story are rather detailed: first of all print the story out, next go to your favorite Chinese restaurant and order your favorite meal. Finally, after finishing your meal place your fortune cookie on top of this story and bring your fist down upon it. Without sweeping the fortune cookie aside, try to read whatever you can through the crumbs.

That is your very special “Mao Say What” fortune.

I hope you “ei” (Chinese for love) this story…)

MAO SAY WHAT ?!?

MC Krafty-Stylz paces back and forth in the back alley with his hand hanging like an accessory from his crotch. He spews words a mile a minute, warming up for the rap battle that is being waged in a warehouse three back-alleys away.

The honky moon hanging overhead seems to be his only spectator.

“Yo yo I’m MC Krafty-Stylz, Buy your cakes ready made full of files, cuz I’ll block yo’ ass in with rhymes, you’ll reminisce over prison times, cuz this shit is for life, leavin’ you stuttering life Barney Fife, Oh shit yo’ on the other side of the law, pulling shit out like Quick Draw Macgraw ? Stick it back in your pants, Cause I got the shit that make ‘em dance.”

A figure emerges from behind the shadows of a dumpster. A hobo-prophet on the verge of the biggest prediction of his life: “I see your past and your future and in both directions awaits greatness.”

MC Krafty-Stylz stops dead in his tracks. A bemused expression break-dances across his face.

“I see that in your past life you were the leader of a great nation. Mao Se Tong was what the world called you. You ruled with ambition and cruelty but this time around you will emerge as a new kind of leader. A man to rule two nations. The coming times will be dark with great conflict s arising between China and America. You will create a new accord between the two countries. You will bridge the two nations with a new kind of revolution,” he says through a mangy beard cluttered with spittle.

“Yo that shit is wacked. You best be getting yo’self a new act cuz’ that performance was not happening. Where’s the arm waving an’ shit, man ?” he laughs.

The hobo prophet’s eyes illuminate red with anger. A wind whips up behind him.“You are the next leader of the world !!” he shouts.

The young rapper freezes for a second and then concludes: “Well if this is gonna be that kind of party I’m gonna stick my dick in the mashed potatoes”

He laughs and the prophet cries.

People inside the warehouse three back-alleys away wait for the next performer.

DRINKY DRINKY

(“DRINKY DRINKY" is about trying to do sober things while drunk.

But first a little quiz.

What’s this a picture of ?


If you guessed the inside of a bottle of beer that is correct.

So with this in mind, in liver and in heart, please enjoy today’s short-short story...)

DRINKY DRINKY

“Anybody can learn sobriety. Christ we’re born that way. What you must learn is sobriety of thought within a beer sloshed brain.” He burped the last word out in an exhale of boozy breathe. He was eight rum and cokes into his drunken state. He was ready to teach.

His son stared off in the direction of the silent television.

“You’ve got to imagine yourself as the captain of a tiny ship that is sailing through stormy waves. The swells smash against the side of your ship, fanning out a spray of booze. You open your mouth to the inebriating waters !!” Without once letting go of his tumbler, he set up an oversized chess board with large hollowed pieces.

His son continued to stare off in the direction of the silent television.

“Today we are going to play a customized version of this classic game of logic and reason. Anyone can play a game of logic and reason. Our brains are born with the capacity for that. What we are going to do today..” He pulled out a bottle of Vodka from beneath his chair. Deposits of his favorite alcohol were hidden in various fissures, cracks and hollows in his home and within the neighborhood. He proceeded to fill up each chess piece with a shot of Vodka.

“And so to start,” he swigged the remains and passed out with a head-butt to the chess board.

His son continued to stare off in the direction of the silent television.