Saturday, October 08, 2005

"FOOD FIGHTERS" is a fast fiction based on a whimsical little bit of brilliance brought to us by the talented Evah Fan.


His teeth are yellow and crooked like an unsuccessful fence. He tells tales every night to frighten any curiosity out of the twins. In the next room crystal meth will be made all through the night.

"Every night at midnight food comes to life to fight for their placement in the produce bins, shelves and fridges of the world. The losers end up front and center, ready to be picked up to be chopped up, fried up, cooked up or whatevered up. If you ever stumble across one of their fights, they will turn you into one of them. A fat fist of dough to be flattened out and turned into spaghetti for lunch." He watches them carefully to make sure they are sufficiently spooked and then wishes them a good night's sleep. After he closes the door he starts to work on a batch of stovetop shards of jagged euphoria.

They know they are sleeping in a lion's den of danger and so they pretend to be scared but inside their pillow-soft thoughts they imagine little balls of dough wrestling for the fun of it.

The twins will hide in patches of innocence throughout their childhood until they see a clear opening to run for their lives.

Friday, October 07, 2005

"READING TO THE REINCARNATION" is a simple little complication of a short-short story based on a photo by the lovely and talented Marieta Tsenova


"Well just bury them under the cherry tree in the front yard," he says pulling up a rusty staple from the wood floor.

"No way. No way," she says on the other side of the room, wrestling with her own staple. "That's way too complicated. Rife with complications."

"What do ya mean ?"

"There's a woman at the gym who was telling about this former friend of hers who had her husband's remains buried under a tree. Some asshole chopped down the tree and the wood was used to make a bench. She was so horrified by all this that she ended up reading to the bench everyday. She reads home reno manuals. That's what he was into."

"She should just burn down the bench and put those ashes somewhere safe."

"See, complications. Way too many complications." They continue working on the living room of their new home, each imagining secret spots for the secure placement of ashes.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

"Recess is Receding in Droves" is a quick little skip down memory lane. Inspiration has come from the supremely talented Lee Hutzulak. If you're lucky enough to be in Vancouver, check out some of his new drawings Friday night at WRKS DVSN Gallery: 269 Powell Street.

Recess is Receding in Droves

The moon shines bright in the black, open sky. Three childhood friends share a joint in the playground of their youth. Three distinct stages of hair lose are illuminated by the moon.

"Remember that time you tried to unicycle to school, but you kept falling flat on your face ? You were horrible." They all laugh.

"Remember when Mr Skanders was nailed in the face with that snowball ? Christ was he ever pissed." Their collective laughter grows louder.

"Remember when we wore Richard Nixon Halloween masks and played penis tag on the monkey bars during recess ? And you had to bark when somebody touched your groin ?"

A silence falls over two of them as paranoia slowly glazes over their eyes which glow red in the dark. They have no idea what he's talking about.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

"SMALL MAN, COMPLEX" is a tiny fast fiction about a tiny man with a big dream. Inspiration has come from the artwork of Ho Che Anderson.


On her morning march to work she quite literally stumbles upon him at the corner of 10th and Main. He comes up to her knee caps and professes his love for her. "My chiwawa is bigger than you," she tells him flat out.

"My feelings for you are bigger than the two of us combined. I want to understand you, spoil you, love you to pieces," he shouts. "I want to marry you and grow old with you and tease you by pretending to be you pretending to be."

She has no time for fools and so continues on with her morning commute.

"Wait ! Wait !" he shouts after her. He wants to race after her but he realizes that unrequited love at first sight is an open sore he'll just have to live with. He has seen the woman of his dreams. Perhaps someday she will come around, he thinks.

And that night she dreams of him jumping back and forth on her right and left breasts. She wakes up in an orgasm but with no name to call out.

Six hours later a crow snatches the small man up from his walk to the corner of 10th and Main and drops him to the ground to see what kind of goodies will come out.

She never sees him again.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

"WITHIN THE BLAST HE MAKES A MOVE" is a fast fiction based on this explosive little number by Peter Bagge, the author of Hate Comics. In honor of the occasion of having the master's art on my site I'm wearing a shirt, "I heart Hate Comics."


His arms and legs spin as though he's a weather vein blown from the of the top of a roof. He has no idea what's happened. One second, he was pinching tomatoes and then quite literally, "Kabloowie !" Suddenly another body sails next to him in the slow motion seconds of the blast.

Her blond hair swooshes to and fro.

"Do you have the time," he hollers.

She says nothing.

Fuck, he thinks to himself as his body slams like a sack of shrapnel into the ground.

Monday, October 03, 2005

"INSERT PROFANITY HERE" is a fast fiction that asks the question, How long would it take a hundred typing monkeys to come up with a conspiracy theory about JFK that relates it all back to the "missing link" ?

Inspiration has come by way of a very talented Vancouver artist by the name of Robert Mearns. If you listen very carefully late at night in Vancouver, you can here the faint sound of his paint brush, slapping beautiful things on ugly old walls. Go to his site and buy some of his paintings.
But most importantly of all enjoy the following...


The elevator door does its horizontal guillotine routine and my building super nearly busts a nut.

"Oh Christ !! Who in their right mind would fu-" He closes his mouth on a now trapped speak bubble full of fucks and shits all compressed into a mumble of filth. I apply a Keat's quote to the profanity: "Heard melodies are sweet but those unheard are sweeter." Yes, very fucking sweet.

He rubs his hand over the graffiti plastered on the shiny elevator door. At the center of the mess is a monkey with JFK's face. His head 180's in my direction.

"If I find that any of your friends..." He pulls out his most menacing glare for the occasion. What a prick. Accusing me. He knows I'm fucking colorblind. So I let into him.

"Is it because I'm young ? Is it because I'm a teenager that you're accusing me of wrong-doing ? Are all teenagers collectively responsible for every spec of shit out there ? I can't paint. I'm colorblind." At this point, I'm shaking mad.

He lowers his threatening look. "Well if any of your friends are responsible for this - "

Strike two, fucker.

"Because they are teenagers and so they must be rotten to the core ? They must be glue-sniffing criminals who get off on messing shit up ? Come on man, we've been over this already." I stand my ground and the old geezer gives up and turns to rub his hands all over the graffiti again. Like he's Spock trying to communicate with that sentient boulder. "Ahhh I feel pain because there's paint all over me !!" Fuck.
The door opens on my floor and I walk out, waiting for him to let loose one last stupid accusation.

The door closes on this glum expression on his face.

He never would have guessed in a million years that I trained my monkey to pull that shit off.

Yeah that's me. A precocious kid with a monkey. From what people tell me, his eyes are an amazing green.

Sunday, October 02, 2005

"SOMEBODY PLEASE TAKE THE CLOWNS SERIOUSLY" is a fast fiction that falls flat on its face onto a trap door which spins it back down through to a second trap door and voila ! onto its feet again. (The key here is that the ankles must be braced for the double trap door spin. (Something my grandfather taught me (in his senility)))

Today's inspiration comes from Anthony Myers, one of the most wonderfully enthusiastic artists to take up the call to send me something.


"I've accomplished everything today," Smarks says, pouring water into the rubber bulb behind his flower.

"Did you walk around the world ?" Smargs queries

"As a matter of fact ..." Smarks dips his head into a large bag of odds and ends and beginnings and evens. He comes out with a stack of photos. "Here I am in front of the Great Wall of China, the Eiffel Tower and the Penis of David !!" Smarks walks to and fro showing off the photos as though he were a ring girl displaying the round number of a fight.

"Hold it !! Hold everything," Smargs shouts. He gently props up his affectation of an tiny umbrella against the wall. There is a bird perch near the top of its stem and the bird on it squaks: "Smarks n' Smargs ! Smarks n' Smargs !" Smargs inspects the photos.

"Your fly is down in every single one of these."

"Oh really ?" Smarks raises an eyebrow into a hairy peak.

"You walked around the world with your fly down !! With a smile and your fly down."

The stand in their living room (which is full of pictures of dying things) in silence.

"Well done !! You have accomplished everything," Smargs shouts.

And they jump up and down with pride in celebration of the folly of vanity.