Tag: personal

The Violent Pizza

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My friend Mikey is one of those political vegans. He orders what he calls non-violent foods, made from healthy ingredients that don”t come from exploiting farm animals.
Today, he’s at a bistro ordering a “non-violent pizza” with garlic, tomatoes, broccoli, and soy cheese.
But the chef has other, sinister plans. He puts on his rubber gloves, reaches for the glowing tubs of shredded meat, and constructs… The Violent Pizza!
In a matter of minutes, a horrifying, angry pizza-creature will burst from the brick oven.
Terrified patrons will scatter and flee.
Mikey, however, will smile and calmly ask for a salad.

Closing Windows

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Y’all may have been wondering why there wasn’t a story from Elisson this past Weekly challenge.
You know, looking back, the first person I called when Edloe died was Steve.
I wanted to let him know that the cat he’d gone on pilgrimage for to visit was…
It was amusing to watch Edloe’s reaction to a reverent stranger.
Food helped.
Never did get a chance to get to Atlanta to visit Matata.
Time’s about windows. They only look wide open for what feels like forever.
When they close, it”s too damn fast. That slamming shut jars me to the soul.

Best Ideas

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I get my very best ideas in the bathroom.
You too?
Yeah.
So, I like to keep a notepad in there.
But today, I totally forgot a pen.
No, I wasn’t going to write anything using something… gross. Ewwwwww.
I tried to repeat my great idea over and over so I wouldn’t forget.
But Nardo came into the room, meowing for attention, so I pet him.
By the time I was done in there, I had forgotten my idea.
So, I put a box of pens in a drawer in the bathroom, took 5 Ex-Lax, hoping for inspiration to return.

The Walls

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When she’s all alone, she talks to the walls.
The North wall is her favorite. She could talk to it for hours about anything. And she does.
The South wall has the window. When she and the North wall are on the outs, she talks to it, but loud enough for the North wall to hear her.
It gets jealous.
The East wall, she barely knows. There’s bookshelves covering it, but what little she sees of it, she doesn’t mind.
The West wall is another beast entirely.
She despises it. Painted it so many times, but it never really changes.

A Night On The Beach

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I wake up and shake the sand from my shoes. This happens every morning.
But I haven’t been to the beach in years.
Only in my dreams.
Sometimes, there’s driftwood in my hand, seaweed wrapped around my ankle.
Salt in my hair from the ocean spray.
On a shelf over my mirror, I’ve put my seashell collection.
All these things, I dream of. And bring back with me.
When I dream of you, take my hand, and let me bring you back.
I will leave my sadness on the sands of my dreams.
To be washed away with the tide.

Adoption

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Once upon a time, there was a fluffy orange kitty that nobody wanted, so the people at the shelter brought him with them to a television station.
He was so pretty and fluffy, the producer of that newscast begged to take him home with her.
He loved being in a new home, and he played with a dog named Aspen, riding on his back.
When the producer was moving to Los Angeles, he ran out the door and hid under the house.
It took two weeks to get him out from under there, and the producer’s best friend adopted him.

The Monster Under The Bed

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Every kid has a monster under the bed, but I’m grown up now.
And yet, right under our bed, there’s a monster.
No, not the orange fluffy cat down here. His grabbing at ankles and biting hands trying to pet him are behind him now.
He’s sleeping, or…
The monster under the bed is not knowing what I’ll find when I look under there again.
The monster is my fear.
The monster is his suffering, and not being able to do anything about it.
The monster takes away every good memory, and replaces it with the sadness that is now.

On TV

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The cable company sent a new lineup card in the mail.
So, we told the television to scan channels, and two minutes later it finished.
There’s more stations in Spanish, shopping channels and religious channels.
You know, the junk you never watch.
More sports. And National Geographic, too.
Then there’s this weird station with a security camera. It’s overlooking a parking lot gate, but it’s all hazy and blurry.
Hey, is that our gate?
I’ll get my cell phone and call you. Then I can jump around and wave and you can watch me on television.
It’ll be so cool.

My First Midnight

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The first time I saw midnight, it was New Year’s Eve.
Well, sort of. It was really nine or nine thirty. Later than my bedtime, but still, not the real midnight time for New Year’s for Chicago.
My mom had moved the clock forward so it looked like eleven. My dad had popped popcorn for us all.
By the time it was fake midnight, we were out of popcorn except for two pieces.
Tossing those two pieces into the air, one after the other, yeah, it was silly. But if that’s all you’ve got, it’s the thought that counts, right?

The Joy Of Work

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The biggest joy of this new office is the fact that it takes me less time to get here and a lot less time to get home.
Sure, I used to read on the bus, or listen to music, or nap.
But now, I can spend that time the way I want to. No more rushing through other things because my day was eaten up by a stupidly long commute.
Of course, my joy at my shorter commute means that countless others have longer commutes of their own.
I’m so sad for them.
Like they never were for me.
HAH!