GROOM YOUR GUMS IF YOU WANT TO BE AN ASTRONAUT

"GROOM YOUR GUMS IF YOU WANT TO BE AN ASTRONAUT" is a super quick read about a boy who grows up with some unique parental advice. The story takes as its inspiration this little number sent to me by Mike Muldowney. The real teeth that sparkle beneath the cute facade is what I get a kick out of most. (Mike found out about me by way of art dorks.)

Enjoy...

GROOM YOUR GUMS IF YOU WANT TO BE AN ASTRONAUT

"The only way to get under my late husband's skin was with a knife," she said through her crooked and yellowed front teeth. "But then again he was a stone so I don't know what kind of knife you'd use." And with this conclusion, she laughed up a couple balls of phlegm yellower than her teeth.

"Michael are you going to bed now or what," she suddenly hollered out in the direction of a closed door with a "CAUTION ALIENS CROSSING" sign duct-taped to it. "My son, now there's another story. You know the saying a fool born every minute ? Well he was born on one of those minutes. Oh Christ, I'm surprised he's made it through life as long as he has. The witless wonder, I call him."

The Aliens Crossing door opened as Michael peered out: "Can't I stay up just a little more ?"

"No ! And don't forget to brush your little pearlies. What happens if you don't brush your perlies ?"

"I won't be able to be an astronaut if I don't have white teeth," he said, reciting his mother's long ago advice. Behind him in his room was a optimistically colorful picture of a child brushing his teeth in a space-ship.

She made a knowing wink at her guest, implying that this was evidence of her son's frail mind.

Truth be told, he wasn't the sharpest sword in the armory. Growing up on dreams of becoming an astronaut, he spent most of his life brushing and flossing his teeth. Every year he sent Nasa his dental records. The truth about his mother was that she had been shagged by aliens who were lured by something they cherished in the yellow of her teeth. Aliens only meddled with people who suffered from extreme yellow teeth.

And his life was overlooked by those above who were disinterested in his pearly whites.

SAUSAGES UP YOUR VORTEX

"Sausages up your vortex" is a little tale to enjoy with tomorrow's brunch. Cherish those sausages as you chew. Next time you might not be so lucky. Today's image comes all the way from the east coast of the U.S. of A. Lee Misenheimer has a great on-line art zine that, at the time of this writing, opens with a perfect rendition of a Chinese demon chomping on an orange creamsicle for brunch.


Bon appetite...

SAUSAGES UP YOUR VORTEX

Lucy had pissed him off royally by not sliding a couple extra sausages onto his Trucker Times Two order at the greasy spoon by the number 12 Highway. To add insult to injury, she had joked that they were too slippery to five finger discount anyway. He wasn't asking her to steal. For the love of Christ, she worked there.

Perks are there for the picking, he mumbled to himself as he walked along the gravel road just off the number 12, replaying everything that happened in his meaty mind. The wind pushed him along in the direction of home.

To show Lucy how pissed off he was for gypping him on the sausages he slammed his ten dollar bill onto the tiny metal spike used for completed orders. The sawbuck lay lame right there in front of them. Good ol' Hamilton with a spike coming up out of his forehead. She just stood frozen behind her cash register. That showed her.

Perks are there for the picking, he mumbled to himself again. The wind picked up even more, blowing leaves and garbage every which way. Oh Jesus those extra sausages would've been so good, his stomach grumbled. Chunks of greasy goodness would've swirled down his cavernous throat.

A tornado funnel formed towards the east and sucked up his hat that he had won at an eatting competition three summers ago but he was too lost in thought to care. The incident continued to replay in his meaty mind, but this time cutlery and fellow diners were swirling around him and Lucy as he tried to coax her into sliding a few extras onto his order. The manager flew overhead and gave them a dirty look.

Perks are there for the picking, he grumbled to himself as his body was whipped from side to side.

The tornado touched down.

Perks are there for the picking, he screamed as the tornado unrooted him from the earth. His head was full of the story with all the elements spinning around and around. Sausages spun around him out of reach in the diner. Five finger discount, Lucy shouted as her body spun around him.

Minutes later, after his body slammed back down to earth, his spirit rose like smoke from a fire doused in sausage grease.

Perks are there for the picking, his spirit muttered as it departed.

LET THE LITTLE FART FIND ITS WAY HOME

"LET THE LITTLE FART FIND ITS WAY HOME" promises to be a quick little dip of a story into the lake of my imagination; refreshing at first but then you realize something strange lurks at the sea-weedy bottom. Today's story takes as its inspiration a painting by the very talented Daniel Chang.

Enjoy...

LET THE LITTLE FART FIND ITS WAY HOME

Herman's hypochondria settled down for a little while in the month of July. His visits to Doctor Karl trickling down to a mere twice a week but then fears reemerged from some dank cave of his subconsciousness. Fears numerous and blind as bats. In August he saw Doctor Karl at least once a day.

"Well I stay submerged in the pool in my building because that's the best way to calm the body. I have to calm my body in order for everything to get back into its proper place."

"Your organs, you say ?" Doctor Karl looked over the tops of his bi-focals with a look of complete and utter scepticism. It appeared as though Herman had buried his sanity along with his parents in the month of June.

"Yes they get contorted in here, I can feel it. My intestines sometimes end up snaking their way down inside and around my knee-cap. Or my liver slips down inside my hand. I mean I know it sounds crazy but I can feel that. I know what's going on inside my body." While his nose pointed optimistically in the direction of the future, Herman's eyes were black with the previous night's insomnia.

"What you are telling me is medically impossible. You would be dead if anything that you described really came to pass," Doctor Karl said, in pseudo-Biblical terms. He went to church every Sunday and it wasn't just for the two front rows of eligible widows in their sexy black which always brought to mind lingerie. He was a believer. In something.

"Okay well maybe that's impossible but farts sometimes get trapped in different parts of my body. I mean that's a fact. They end up right behind my eyes or sometimes they're in my toes and it's uncomfortable. I get that gaseous feeling in those parts of my body. I know it sounds weird but damn it all, it happens." Herman failed to tell the doctor that he sometimes played recordings of children's tales right by his anus to lure the farts out. In his heart of hearts -wherever that was located in his jig-sawed physiology- he felt that they would come out for a good story.

Doctor Karl failed to tell Herman something far more dear; he had long since given up on the notion of revealing to Karl that he was his biological father. The kid had just gotten way too weird and he was beyond the reach of any life preserver.

But Doctor Karl continued to listen.

HEAVY METAL UNCLE TRIES TO COME UP WITH A NEW BAND NAME

"HEAVY METAL UNCLE TRIES TO COME UP WITH A NEW BAND NAME" is a quick little conversation betweeen an uncle searching for a band name and his smart-alecky nephew. ( Oh and the Uncle is part of a heavy metal band named WHYTE RAWKE, whose award winning video will teach you a lesson about parking in Surrey.)

Today's piece of writing is based on an image that has been sent to me for humanitarian reasons. My sister is getting rid of her couch and she'd be more than happy to donate it to any theater company or film group in Vancouver that will take it off her hands. The stipulation is that the couch be credited in any production as Marky-Marcel. So anyway here's her couch, me and my nephew.

Remember she's giving away the couch not the dog, me or my nephew. This is not that kind of site. You can email her at bspenst@telus.net.

Now this does not represent a new trend or anything at Fast Fictions. I'm simply doing this as a favour for my sister. I'm putting up an image of her couch and I'm making up a little piece of writing inspired by it. If you have a futon to get off your hands or a lost child that you're looking for do not send me pictures. I don't want to have to make up fictitious stories based on the smiling photos of lost children. Please don't make me do that. This is not that kind of site.

Drop by tomorrow for an blissfully bizarre illustration from the very talented Daniel Chang.
For now, enjoy today's story...

HEAVY METAL UNCLE TRIES TO COME UP WITH A NEW BAND NAME

How about "Radical Undertow" ?

Sounds like Tool doing surf songs. Fire and water, man. Does not jive.

How about "Skin Cave"?

Creepy. I mean unless you want serial killers wearing your band's t-shirts on the six o'clock news.

"Screaming Death" ?

"Whispering Life ?"

Okay, okay how about "The Fangs of a Dog" ?

Well if you're just gonna base names on what's in front of you why not "Wall in Front of My Face" ?

How about "Kings of Fury"?

Oh would you like me to get you your pink sceptor, your royal wankerness ?

How about "The Band that Was Too Killer for a Name ?"

How about "Thowing in a Towel that Sucked in the first place" ?

Are you saying you don't like Whyte Rawke ?

All I'm saying is that ten years from now when you're still unemployed and I'm gainfully employed and your band is still playing gigs for cheap beer, you can't crash on my couch for open-ended periods of time. Oh here comes my mom with that new digital camera of hers. Smile.

THE MAGIC OF YOUR DREAMS HYPNOTIZES ME

"THE MAGIC OF YOUR DREAMS HYPNOTIZES ME" is a droplet of a story (a storylet ?) based on the ninth photo sent to me by Marieta Tsenova.

Thanks for the continuing to send me some of the most wonderfully crazy photos on the planet, Marieta.

Enjoy.

THE MAGIC OF YOUR DREAMS HYPNOTIZES ME

Dumpy slouch-walks down creep-street.

Dumpy is obviously down on his luck and wouldn't have considered frequenting the worst part of town if he had had even the tiniest kernel of self-respect or hope in his heart. His shame hangs heavy on his shoulders like a dirty old shawl with "I'm a sicko" embroidered across the back. Creep-street is a sneaky little alley that cuts between abandoned warehouses and this is where the bargain-bin hookers hang out.

Dumpy's eyes are squished into slits, buried beneath a lifetime of dead dreams. His pupils dart back and forth in search of affordable relief.

That's when the time-traveling music video from 1984 pops up out of thin air. For a few seconds a woman dressed as a teacher lip-synchs to pre-recorded music coming out of three monitors which surround her. A camera man with a "Who's the Boss ?" t-shirt and stone washed jeans, gives her a thumbs up. Obviously, they are rehearsing the video. Apparently, they are stuck in a time-traveling adventure.

They disappear.

After several seconds of registering, tears squirt out of Dumpy's eyes and he turns to go home to turn his life around. Thank-you time travelling video from nineteen-eighty four, he whispers to no one in particular.

I KEEP IT REAL PART TIME

"I KEEP IT REAL PART TIME" is a little literary excursion that traipses through the forest of my imagination with this picture in the picnic basket:

This lovely piece of cat-art was made by none other than Michael Sieben, a talented young man who works for Thrasher magazine, a publication that deals with farm tool injuries. Or something like that.

Thanks for the use of the image Michael. May you never be harmed by farm tools, cats... or picnic baskets.

Enjoy...

I KEEP IT REAL PART TIME

So the funny thing is that Tedd keeps trying to get money back from Pat who owes him something like twenty bucks but Pat refuses to believe this because Pat argues that you can't really be certain of anything when you're high on acid and Tedd claims to have lent Pat money when they were hallucinating images of talking cats last week but Pat is like no way dude how can you do accounting based on transactions done while on mind-fucking drugs, I mean I'm not a "let's share our pubic hairs hippie" or anything but the whole acid trip trumps any responsibilities of what I may or may not have done, said or hallucinated and if you were stupid enough to lend me money that I supposedly needed to pay a cat named Craig who was dishing out wisdom well then that's your problem and one final thing, I mean who's ever heard of paying a cat in front of a 7-11 twenty bucks for advice along the lines of "I keep it real part time" ?

But I'm backing Tedd because I bought some speed off a cat named Craig just an hour ago.

Yeah, I keep it real part time too.

WE HATE FLIES BECAUSE

"WE HATE FLIES BECAUSE" is a tiny tale based on an image sent to me by Tony Millionaire, the father of Maakies, Drinky Crow and Uncle Gabby.

Any asshole can be talented. Any bastard can be talented and famous. But to be talented, famous and a good hearted person is next to godliness. Tonight, I'd like you all to redirect your prayers to Tony Millionaire.

Not only has he sent little ol' me an image that he says I can use for my book Fast Fictions for the City, but he also threw in his support with the Only Magazine staff after their previous publication Terminal City had been overthrown by a Vancouverite with a lot of money up his ass.


Enjoy...

WE HATE FLIES BECAUSE

He adjusts his bow tie with two hands and a lot of pride. He is progress, he tells himself every morning when he wakes up to the certainty of the sunrise. He reminds himself throughout the day of this unique habit of mind which sets him apart from the unwashed rabble of mankind that wake up with empty heads at all hours of the day. Touching his bow tie takes him back to the morning and the central truth of his existence.

And money will inevitably follow.

"We hate flies because they pose a puzzle, are they life or simply winged specks of grime to be batted away ? Ostensibly, they are little chunks of life spinning around aimlessly. Indeed, they are like little dirty chickens with heads chopped off going around and around. They are small, helpless and in need of our assistance which can only come by way of extinction. What is it that we can do in the midst of our present nation-wide depression ? How can we aid the grinding gears of progress in these troubled times ? On average we kill thirteen flies a year but that number can be increased. If we band together we will destroy them all which will push America forward through the darkest days of the 30's. And we will emerge from our present crisis a cleaner America."

His smile spreads the flesh of his cheeks back across the bony frame of his face.

"Ladies and Gentlemen I give you a reason to renew your faith in progress. I give you... the fly-swatter." He waves this about like a flag and a crowd of one hundred cheer with upraised arms. "I give you the means of self-employment with a single stroke for only fifty cents !!"