Tag: book

The Prison of Oz

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Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion sat in the prison cell, weeping.
The Scarecrow had insisted that they take him apart and slip him through the bars.
“I can go for help!” he said cheerfully.
So, they pulled out his straw and threw it with his empty clothes out the barred window.
They blew away in the breeze.
The Tinman insisted that he could slip through the bars if they hammered him flat.
The heavy wooden bench proved useful for this purpose.
It also proved destructive. They called out to him, but the Tin Man did nothing but twitch and moan.

Molly

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By day, Molly Scott’s soul is where it belongs – inside Molly, making Molly uniquely Molly.
If you’ve read her books, you’ll know what I mean. Children’s books totally unsafe for children. “Cooking With Broken Glass” and “Boogertime Blues” are favorite of mine.
At night, her soul wanders and resides in a CPR dummy in Fairfax.
It was during a late First Aid class that I discovered this phenomenon. Five chest compressions, pinch the nose, breathe in, and a slow, faint whisper: this is why I do not dream.
No movement, no animation. Just plastic.
I switched to a cooking class.

Quote

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They say the devil can quote scripture.
Of course he can. He wrote it. Every word of it.
Branded on the backs of the sinners with red hot pokers.
Skin torn from flesh, pressed into sheets, bound between brimstone covers, still dripping with their blood.
He was there at the Council of Nicea, making changes to his rough draft, whispering in old priests ears and making deals.
I’ll make you a saint.
I’ll make you a hero.
I’ll make you a prophet.
I’ll make you a god among men.
Every hotel room is his church, his word in the drawer.

Hack Writerland

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Sixty-five million years from now, an amber block containing a mosquito will be drained of “author” Michael Chricton’s blood.
Through the miracle of junk science, his DNA will be patched to a chimpanzee’s and grown into a theme park attraction.
From all over, they will pay to see herds of hack writers roam the hillsides, devouring fringe research and vomiting up novel after novel, screenplay after screenplay.
“Mommy! Look at the box office on that one!”
Until a theme park rival tries to steal the DNA and causes deadly violent mayhem!
But that’s a tale for another hack to tell.

The Golden Pen

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I was suffering a horrible case of writer’s block when The Devil tapped me on the shoulder.
“Use my pen,” he said, and he handed me his Golden Pen.
“What’s the catch?” I asked.
“The usual shit,” he said. “Brilliant artistry for your soul and eternal damnation.”
“Pffft,” I said. “I’m already fucked.”
I shook his hand and he vanished.
Sure enough, when I tried to write, it was out of ink.
Fucker.
Oh well. I wrote anyway, scratching the letters into the paper, and I held it up to the light.
I’m damned, but my work will live on.

When Angels Fuck

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They look so beautiful, but you have to wonder: how do angels fuck?
If one’s on top, the other’s on bottom.
Somebody’s gonna get their wings crushed.
If one’s behind the other, they are getting wings flapping in their face.
Yeah, I’ve read through Dante’s Paradisio, and he says nothing about fucking angels.
Once, I asked an angel how they fuck, but all I got was a drink thrown in my face.
Sure, “This must be Heaven because I see an angel” is one hell of a pickup line, but nobody’s ever told me how to follow through on it.

Jealous Aquaman

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Aquaman lays back in his tub, watching the Olympics on a portable television.
The announcer says Michael Phelps’ name, and the superhero winces.
A twinge of jealousy. A scowl. A clenched fist.
He looks at his costume folded up on the toilet seat.
Orange, green, black, and yellow… sure, the colors are ugly, but it’s a classic.
And functional, too, he reminds himself. That technological suit they wear in the Olympics still can’t produce race times like a true superhero.
Or let them talk to fish.
“Give it up, dude,” says his pet goldfish.
Aquaman sighs, and changes the channel.

Fee Fie Foe Fucked

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Jack didn’t realize his mistake until he’d chopped through the beanstalk.
The giant was directly above his farm.
And falling. Really fast.
Gold coins couldn’t buy his way out of this one.
The goose’s goose was cooked.
And the magic harp began to play a mournful dirge as the shadows grew darker and darker.
The giant was falling face-down, and when he saw the look on Jack’s face, he roared with laughter.
“FEE FIE FO FUM!” was the last thing the giant shouted, and the last thing Jack heard.
Jack’s wife, asleep, didn’t feel a thing.
“Magic beans,” she mumbled.

The End

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“Tell me a story, my beloved,” said the king, “Or the sun will shine over your headless corpse.”
Scheheradze smiled and recited the same story she’d told every night for the past three years.
The king was cruel, yes, but also senile.
He woke up every morning, free from memory of the day before.
So, when he’d ask for a story, it was always new to him.
Just once, she grew tired and changed it.
“Why did you change the story?” he said.
She was confused… frightened. He… knew?
He was laughing as she buried a dagger in his chest.

Armageddon

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Armageddon.
The final battle between Good and Evil.
And here I am, a rifle in one hand and a cell phone in the other, waiting to find out which side I’m on.
Evil likes how I’m a good shot, but Good thinks I’m officer material.
Doesn’t matter which calls. Whatever side I end up on, I’m going to fight.
Phone rings, and I answer it.
It’s one of those automated calling systems, asking if I’ve contributed to the local policeman’s fund.
I hang up and wait.
Looking around, lots of people with guns and phones, waiting.
Maybe this is hell.