Saturday, May 28, 2005

("A WRITER WILL SEEK HIS SMALL REVENGE" is a tiny little tale to enjoy while sipping your cup of morning joe.

Look out of the window after you read this and reminisce over that high school reunion that you never went to.



Obviously Mr Anglington's moustache was disgustingly distinct. It looked like a hairy little creature that had dragged itself across thousands of miles of harsh terrain to arrive beneath his nose to die, Paul's wife had once joked. On this particular evening however the joking was over.

"They just couldn't put that on the cover !! The costs would just go through the roof," Susan explained as clearly as possible. Paul's plans were beautiful at the core but then he would go and lavish them with extraneous impossiblities.

"The only way this book will work is if that moustache can be touched on the cover. Then it will be a true horror story. Then people won't sleep at night with the book next to them. They'll worry it'll come to life and kill them. We need something tangible that people can touch on the cover." He paused and waited for her to acknowledge his brilliance.

A high school annual sat open on Paul's writing desk. A smiling principle with a horrid moustache stared up at them while they fought. A scribbled message next to him read: Paul, don't get your hopes up for your future and all will go as well as can be imagined for someone with your limited abilities, regards, Mr Anglinston.

A writer seeking his small revenge.

Friday, May 27, 2005

("CELL PHONE VIBRATIONS IN THE POCKET" is the title of today's little 9-1-1 of a story. If you want me to text message this very short story to you so that you can read it on your cell phone where it will be extra funny, please give me a call at 576-6869 and ask for Cell Phone Vibrations in the Pocket.

(It's not my real number and so I won't answer the phone but you'll be calling a complete stranger with a very strange request so good luck.)

Anyway enjoy the story..)


"Oh the guy can keep his cool. He could roll a joint in American flag rolling paper while being questioned at the border and he wouldn't flinch !!" The actor emotes praise for all one hundred and fifty-two people in the audience to hear.

"So you're saying he's stupid with confidence," the actress responds blankly with sexy curls dangling along her cheekbones. Apparently, her hair does most of the acting for her.

You turn to your date to exchange a rolling of the eyes. The less than inspiring performances are providing you with common ground to laugh all over. What else could you expect from a play called "Cool Hand Puke".

"Oh the guy can keep his cool." Again the emoting.

Suddenly a cell phone ring and accompanying vibration burst out in your pants.

You jerk to life to action, rummaging about in your pockets to find the culprit. Didn't you turn it off at the start of the play ? You smile sheepishly at your date. For some reason, you can't get to it.

It rings and vibrates again.

Your date scrunches up her face in a grimace.

You rummage deeper and then finally touch it. You freeze in fear realizing that this ringing/buzzing is coming from your penis.

You have no idea who's on the other end.

"Oh the guy can keep his cool," the actor repeats his line with real rage, staring directly at you.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

("JACKSON POLLOCK DECAPITATION" is a tiny little "story" that rams the head of abstract expression onto the body of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.



He lives for moments of abstact distractions. He loves to stare into the myriad shadows overlapping and drowning in toilet bowls. He spaces out on clouds. He dreams up vague meanings for reflections cast on shiny cars in the vaporous heat of summer..

He works as a 911 operator, but doesn't really fit the job description.

"Hello 911," he answers. "Police, fire truck or..." he is abstracted by the whirling screams of a chain-saw that is right behind you.

But you don't have time to answer him anyway.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

("LEVEL FIFTY-TWO IS ENLIGHTENMENT POWER" is a short-short story that might serve as a good mantra for all the video game geeks out there whose eyes have imprints of demons or dragons or bazookas from their favorite games.

Come out into the light clutching this story as your ticket to reality !! )


"If you give the golden zucchini to the wampalooma, he'll hug you and give you a shield of invincibility which should take you all the way through to level fifty-two," Lester shouts in the direction of Marvin. They sit on opposite sides of a table staring intently into their computer screens. The walls of the room are coated with posters of women in bikinis, dragons and gamer conventions.

"No way, you can't trust a wampalooma after level thirty 'cause sometimes they have swords made invisible by unicorn tears."

Lester appears unfazed but a twitch of irritation registers in his fingers which miss a couple of html tags.

"Ahhh fuck !!" he shouts at the screen. In front of him are several open browsers, one of which displays a website entitled: . On the site is a manifesto directed at those who spend their lives sequestered in the digital dimensions of video games. Behind these words of freedom, a well adjusted couple hold hands on a beach.

"You are going down, motherfucker," Lester says through gritted teeth. His fingers type away furiously at a code designed to crash this man's site, empty his bank account and give him a criminal record of child molestation charges all at the same time

Reflections of giraffes with AK47's fly across Marvin's glasses but are suddenly replaced with a bright pink explosion. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he says without moving a muscle. His fingers lie like deflated balloons on the keyboard.

We'll get the fuckers, they both think in tandem.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

("GARY COLEMAN SHAPED LSD" is a short-short story that shouts out, "You want short ?! Okay I'll give you Gary Coleman crouching down a few feet under, digging his own grave. How's that for short !?

Yeah it's really short.

With no disrespect meant for the Cole-man, I hope you enjoy today's story..)

hi I'm gary coleman


"And then you just have to hold onto that one idea which just comes down out of the sky like a bolt of lightening that slices you down the middle. It severs you in frickin' half, man !! You are cut through and through but as your two sides fall to the ground you have to grab hold of that idea which exists at your core. The idea came out of the sky but it was also in you. The idea emerged out of the union of the outer and inner. This is what brought on the lightening in the first place. This is what opens you up to the answer which is in you. You gotta grab hold of it as your two sides are falling, as your arms are falling to the ground !!"

"So you're saying that Victoria is a 250 prefix ?" he asks on the other end of the telephone.

"Your heart knows," replies information.

The employee at Telus Communications will be fired in two days for dropping LSD on the job (which incidentally is shaped like the head of a young Gary Coleman.)

What chyoo talking 'bout third person narrative voice ?!?!, you ask at the end of this "story".

Monday, May 23, 2005

("EAVSDROPPING ON THE STEAM BUNS" is a little dumpling of a story that came to mind the other day while I was jogging through Vancouver's China-town.

China-town is a great place to appreciate the decay of colorful architecture, unique shops selling mysterious Chinese food items and of course the craziest crazies in the world who are just stumbling through on their way to their next fix.



While on the outside his body is frozen from movement, inside his mind is another matter altogether. His brains are clouded with microscopic storms of misfiring neurons and synaptic lightening bolts firing off into painful directions. He is messed up on the drugs that his body manufactures. In geographical terms. his body is a tiny drug producing nation that exports something akin to junk straight to his brains.

Of course the crack that he smoked three minutes ago doesn't help matters.

He stands in the middle of the makeshift lineup at the Chinese Bakery. He stares at the steamed buns.

Raindrops the size of raisins comes down heavily on the street outside.

"This weather's bumming me out," says one steamed bun to the other.

"This weather is shit," replies the other.

"Do you owe me money ?"

"No, you owe me money."

"I need to get an umbrella."

"What do you need an umbrella for ? You're gonna be gobbled down in a couple minutes."

"I want an umbrella for the trip down."

"You can't always get what you want," screams the other steamed bun in his best Mick Jagger impersonation.

A woman behind the cash register of the Chinese Bakery interrupts the conversation and shouts at the man, telling him to get outside.

He wakes up from his hallucination and steps outside beneath clouds the color of steamed buns.

Sunday, May 22, 2005

("PICKING THE RIGHT ONE" is a nostril-sized tale of a man chatting up a bus-driver.

To accompany today's story I've put up a photo of a friend who designs toys for children. I was thinking of writing a story about how he makes molds of possible toys with nose candy that he digs up but decided against it. Too obvious.

There is however a world of possibilities in a nostril and so I hope the inner nose-picker inside you enjoys today's tale...)


"You see before our provincial elections there's this guy who'll predict the outcome by picking his right or left nostril. He picked the right one which represents the political right," he says at peak volume at the front of the bus. He's seated on what the driver's term "groupie row".

"Oh is that right ?" the driver replies like he's turning the same corner for the millionth time.

"Yeah and sure enough Campbell got back into power. How do you explain that ?" he shouts in wonder and awe.


In a tiny, quiet corner of the driver's mind, he's reminiscing over a childhood spent knee deep in nose goblins.

And as the bus turns the corner everyone's face is splashed with the colours of the sunset.