Saturday, October 01, 2005

"DECAPITATED HEAD ON AN APPLE TREE" is a little fast fiction especially designed for you to enjoy with your Saturday morning cup of joe.

Inspiration has come by way of Sander Sarioglu whose wonderfully narrative work I came across on the cover of the latest Prism Magazine.


"Apples will have their revenge !! They will have their comeuppance !!"

She shoots him a glare to shut him up and after she's certain of his silence she goes back to selecting Fuji apples.

"I'm doing this for you, you know," she says to him while her hands fondle their way through the produce. A trace of a tear forms in the corner of her left eye.

As they move on to the frozen foods, he grabs an apple and plunks it on top of his bowler hat. His hat is stripped and his large wool sweater that stretches out with his fat is also stripped. From the sky the apple makes an almost perfect bull's-eye. If anybody from above sharp-shoots this apple, they'll have to take me as well, he thinks in a whisper to himself.

He spends the rest of the day day-dreaming Mother Nature's revenge on our apple-slaughtering society.

Months later, after the tumour - which had been pushing his personality into a strange corner of his brain - is successfully removed, the doctor notes its resemblance to a certain fruit.

She never buys apples of any sort ever again.

Friday, September 30, 2005

"IMPLANTS" is a fast fiction that uncovers the latest trend towards pastoralism in youth.

Inspiration comes by way of Brendan Monroe who has created an entire world of midget ninjas, sleeping plant children and other strange entities on his site.


"The boy had trees growing out of him for Christ's sake !!"

"That's none of my business."

"But that's kind of weird. Don't you think ?"

"If that's how he wants to waste his time... Let him."

"I can't believe you ?!"

"Look, when we were young it was nose piercings and breast implants. How do you revolt against that ? You go back to nature in a big way, but in the end it's nothing but a phase."

Thursday, September 29, 2005

"BREAK A BONE FOR CHARITY" is a return to the daily fast fictions of isolated little tales that have nothing to do with anything but your heart. I've been trying to create a serialized story over the past week but Christ it's tough as the story also has to take into account the art that I'm getting everyday. Literary contortion. Freak-showing myself for the amusement of the world. No way jack. I think I'm going to stick with the self-contained blurbs of fiction for the time being.

Today's fast fiction is inspired by an image from the very talented Penny Van Horn.


The doorbell buzzes in an electrified tone. You leave the pile of ticket stubs, bank statements, napkins and other daily scraps of paper which all have little haikus written on them. You are putting them together into a one of a kind booklet called "Poetic Dregs" which will someday- The buzzer cuts into your thoughts and impatiently hurries you to the door.

You open the door to whoever it may be.

"Hello, sir. There are many children who will go to bed tonight with no food in their belly. For five dollars you can break my arm and half of that will go to a trustworthy charity."

He stares despairingly at you.

You wonder what kind of hiaku will fit on the receipt.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

"VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ? - part six" continues the tale of a stoned art student who unwittingly saves the world. Today's visual insiration comes from the talented Seth Scriver, whose amazing images are booby-trapped with warped brilliance.


"This is how the world ends, this is how the world ends, this is how the world ends !!" a group of muscle-suited men chanted as they rickshawed a cabin on wheels up Granville Street. Dempsey couldn't believe his murky-red eyes and as he quickened his step to keep pace with the spectacle he found himself in the midst of a group of Quebec punk-rockers, homeless people, art students and a couple photographers who all trailed behind.

Six average sized men in body-builder suits sweated under the weight of their heavy plastic outfits. One of the men looked ready to faint as his face went through unique shades of red, but he continued to hustle and chant: "This is how the world ends, this is how the world ends, this is how the world ends !!"

Dempsey recognized one of the art students in the crowd from his first year Art History class.

"Hey, what's all the hubbub bub ?"



"What ?"

"What are they protesting ?"

"Beats me."

They stared at each other with stoned grins.

Suddenly the six men in plastic muscles came to a halt, bring the strange circus to a stop in front of the art gallery. A man in a hill-billy hat and beard crawled out of the cabin. "Our world is a changing !! We are here today to show you how. We are not magicians but you will be filled with awe !" He pulled out a shot gun from the shadows of the cabin and started firing at the men who had carted him up the road.

The handful of spectators scattered every which way but no sooner had the firing begun than the men in suits who had apparently been shot, stood up to the amazement of everyone.

"This is a political allegory. This is 'now' theater. This is culture jamming. This is a statement about change." The hillbilly took off his beard.

Dempsey, hiding behind a bush, couldn't believe his luck. Of all days to cut class, he had chosen the best. His cell rang and he remembered his appointment to meet with his roommate.

But he couldn't take his eyes off of what was unfolding in front of his eyes.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

"VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ? - part cinq" is the fifth installment of a fast fiction that started a little over a week ago.

Basically, the story is about a stoned art student who has to save the world from total destruction.

As the story is set in Vancouver it also contains hints as to where you can actually buy weed in "Vansterdam" for all you out of towners.

There are also other exciting hints in the story such as the next winning lottery ticket number, the telephone number of Mr RIght and the forgotten code to that lock around your bike. Or at least that's what my morning horoscope told me I would unwittingly provide the world with.

Today's visual inspiration comes from Vancouver's very own Ehren Salazar. We were chatting a week ago and it turns out there's quite a story behind this picture:
But for now enjoy the fifth installment of VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ? ....


Dempsey floated down Water street in a stoned haze. A favorite past time of his was to watch the mildly insane street people confronting the overwhelmingly normal tourists. No matter how crazy their approach, the tourists simply blinked, looked at their maps and then stared up at the tops of the buildings.

"Could I have 32 cents ?" a bearded sad sack of a man asked an elderly couple.

They continued walking down the street with their gaze fixed on some unknown point in the sky as though there were a million dollar prize that awaited them for being the most diligent gawkers of the mundane.

"My number is 604-576-6869 if you change your mind," the bum hollered at their backs.

In the midst of this mix of people coming and going, there were an enterprising few who had staked out little territories for themselves: buskers, artists of ill repute and street vendors. Demsey's favorite was a man who sketched people with a pencil between his teeth. With his free hands he played the bongo drums. The artist's self-portrait was on a sign on the ground that read: my art will touch you but I promise I won't.

"So you're cutting class ?" he said to Demsey with a pencil between his teeth.

"Yeah," Demsey smiled with blunted bliss.

"Yeah, that's how it all started and ended for me."

Dempsey's cell went off: "Greetings. I am so terribly sorry to interrupt you from whatever artistic brilliance may be brewing in that skull of yours but I'm afraid I left an item of great import behind in my mad dash to leave the flat this morning."

Demsey stared at the pencil in the street artist's mouth and imagined it as a toothbrush with bristles at the end of it with tiny lead tips on each point that scrubbed scribbles on the inside of his teeth. Self-inflicted graffitti.

"Yeah, no problem. I've got it here with me."

"Smashing. Well shall we meet at the corner of Robson and Granville. Say in about half an hour ?"

"Yeah, sure."

And it was in such a way that the apocalypse was back on track.

Monday, September 26, 2005

"DUPED IN THE SMOKE AND MIRRORS OF NARNIA" is an old-fashioned tale about a boy and his blender. It is based on this awsome piece of creepy pop art by Brian Taylor:


A simple joke about a 'tard had spiralled off into useless speculation . One of the assholes around the table suddenly got all philosophical on us: "So really what's the difference between a mental illness and a mental handicap ?"

Christ, I hate people who drop stupid questions on a group like that. We were laughing !!

Of course, I wasn't going to tell him about my younger brother who grew up with so much belief in his head that it pushed everything else out. He was a simpleton. And I was his asshole older brother.

Yeah, he believed pretty much everything you told him along with anything you read him out of books. After listening to the Lion, the Bitch and the Scarecrow... or some story like that, Andy was convinced that there was some other world waiting in a closet or at the back of the fridge for him.

So one day I said to him,"Yeah you can reach into and touch a magical world at the bottom of that blender." Oh Christ I was an asshole.

"Will I be able to touch Narnia ?" he asked.

I didn't know it was plugged in !

After the incident, he was different. Fuck of course he was different. Put your hand into the blades of a blender, see if that doesn't fuck you up. He no longer believed in the magical parts of stories but he believed there were actors that got together to create the scenes in the books. Try to make sense of that. He thought it happened somewhere but that it was all special effects and trickery and the author was the only person to see this shit. Yeah, exactly, weird. His mental handicap had left him vulnerable to beliefs that were all fucked up.

"So, what's the difference ?" he asked again.

I fuckin' nailed him right in the face.

I'm such an asshole.

Sunday, September 25, 2005

"THE DALI LLAMA RIDES AGAIN" is a special fast fiction written to celebrate the Dali Lama's ninety-fifth birthday !!


Someday it will be the Dali Lama's ninety-fifth birthday and I hope this humble little story will be used to celebrate his holiness.

And I hope someday somebody shows him this very cute image made by the lovely and talented, Eleanor Rosenberg,who you can contact if you are interested in helping out with words or images for a book that she's putting together for an Emily Carr grad project.

And you should, she's good. I mean look at this...
On the topic of the Dali Lama, I'd also like to direct you to a friend of mine who's currently traveling through Tibet. Visit his detailed travel blog-o-rama to find out the latest fashions in Tibetan Buddhism for the fall season.

But for now, slide back in your hot tub, don't get too much water on your laptop and enjoy...


"Hey Dali, what's up ?" A young monk gives the Dali some skin and their fingers snap in unison.

"Ahh, you know just... I don't think it really went as I'd hoped. I mean everything was in place but the whole shebang just didn't jive." The Dali looks out his hotel window and stares at the shimmering lights of the city. "I mean I don't even know what city I'm in. Oh wait, I do know, Hey Chicago are you ready for some enlightenment ? Yeah that's right, Chicago."

"But that poster behind you of your head on a llama was choice. Funny stuff. I mean what's not to like and those activity books for the kids... Where's His Holiness ? and your head on the llama body somewhere in the crowd. People eat that stuff up."

"Yeah but do they really get it?" His eyes are shielded by his tinted sunglasses but a tear trickles down into the open.

It's midway through the tour and the Dali needs to cut loose and let off some steam in the city.

The Dali needs to get schloshed.