Tell Me A Fable

This is something silly  I wrote about seven years ago as a funny little thing for my friend.


Once upon a time there was a beautiful maiden known as Le Fop. Day in and day out she was forced to make beautiful music for hard, distrubingly amusing, task masters. She dreamed of being rescued one day by a handsome man who had hot maple fudge syrup, and was an S. G.

One day she came upon an evil but kind person called Le Fantome, who was cursed to listen to the inane chattering of a fruit cake. Le Fantome made a deal with Le Fop; if she would break the curse the favor would be returned, freeing her from her servitude.

With a mighty swish of her hair Le Fop sent the fruit cake tumbling back. With a loud thwock the fruit cake crashed into the ground, knocking herself out. Freed from the curse, Le Fantome told Le fop in three days the debt would be repaid.

As the third day drew to an end, a handsome man named J.D. appeared. Le Fantome had told him about Le Fop. Striken by her plight, he rushed to rescue her. They married and lived happily to the end of their days.

Creamy Murder Eyes

For Fred, who asked me to write her a story about creamy murder eyes.

It would be nice to say that this sort of thing didn't normally happen to him, but it wouldn't be true. J. M. Hatter had a knack for getting into this kind of situation. This was, at least, the fourth time. Hatter woke to find himself tied to a chair, in the middle of an abandoned warehouse, surrounded by gruff looking men. Most people would find this terrifying, but he was feeling rather chipper. Compared to some of the things he saw growing up, this was practically tame.

The leader of his kidnappers came forward. A short man with a strong build, the dim orange light glimmering off his bald head drew Hatter’s attention. Privately, Hatter dubbed the man McGleamy.

“Glad yah could join us,” McGleamy said, lighting up a cigarette. “When yah fought back da boys gave yah a pretty good whack on da noggin.” Hatter had noticed a painful throbbing in the back of his skull. “Truth is, yah didn’t wake up, I’d ah hadda shoot Jimmy. Now that yer ‘wake, I don’ hafta.”

“I ‘preciate that, Boss,” Jimmy piped up from behind Hatter.

“Glad to help!” Hatter said amiably, tugging on his bound wrists. “Now that Jimmy’s safe, if you’ll untie me, I’ll be on my way.”

McGleamy shook his head. “We can’t do dat. Yah’ve got info I need.”

“Is it where to find wax for your head? Because, it’s pretty shiny already,” Hatter quips.

WHAM! Ears ringing, blood pounding through his aching head, Hatter wobbles precariously on his chair, reeling from the sudden blow of McGleamy’s meaty fist.

“Dat’s funny. We got us a funny man,” McGleamy mocks. Grabbing a handful of Hatter’s hair with a jerk, he leans in close. “Yah tell me where yer partner is, Funny Man, or I’ll make yah wish yah’d never been born.”

Staring into the light grey eyes of his captor Hatter said with a lopsided grin, “You’ve got rice pudding eyes, and the pupils are raisins.”

McGleamy blinked, looked at his men in confusion, turned back to Hatter. “Yah makin’ fun ah me?” he asked. “Are yah really that stupid?”

Hatter chattered on, ignoring his captor. “Maybe not rice pudding. I never liked rice pudding. Tapioca eyes? Isn’t tapioca just rice pudding? I don’t think it is. I can never remember. Maybe your eyes are more like the cream filling in a Cadbury Egg. Or a cherry cordial!  No, you just have these dreamy, creamy murder eyes.”

“Hey! I’m talkin’ ta yah. Listen ta me yah stupid freak!” McGleamy yelled, shaking Hatter, to no avail. The mindless prattle continued uninterrupted.

“I think yah broke ‘im, Boss,” Jimmy suggested.

“No kiddin’, Nimrod. Get the pliers. Maybe a few broken fingers will get his attention,” McGleamy announced with a grim smile.

“No, once he gets on a roll you just have to wait until he stops,” a new voice said from behind McGleamy.

He turned, seeing a young, dark-haired woman. The same person he’d kidnapped Hatter to find. “Hey!” he exclaimed, a little stunned.

“Hullo,” she replied with a wicked smile.

                                                                                                                                  

“I’ve got it! You’re eyes look like cheese soup, if it was the white cream filling from a donut that was melted, and not actually cheese soup,” Hatter announced triumphantly. He realized, belatedly, that he was no longer with McGleamy in the warehouse, but sitting shotgun in a car. Hatter turned to greet the dark-haired woman driving. “Hi, Belle! Did you get the information you wanted?”

“I did,” she said with a satisfied smirk. “Your bald friend knew more than I expected. Thank you for being the bait.”

“Not a problem,” Hatter assured her, gingerly leaning his thumping head against the cool window. “You meet the most interesting people that way.”

“I suppose you do.”

After a few minutes of companionable silence Hatter piped up, “Y’know, his eyes did look a little like creamy mashed potatoes.”

The Twinkie Massacre

This was written for a class in college. It's not one of my favorites, but it is an important first try at a different genre.

“I hate my life,” Zeke Porter mutters as he walks down a hill leading away from the campus of the college he attends.

 He isn’t sure how it happened, but someone switched his shampoo with hair dye. Stepping from the shower this morning he discovered wheat blond locks changed to the color of a deranged flamingo pink Easter egg. A man walking up the hill stops dead in his tracks, staring. Ready to rip into the man, Zeke realizes the gawking stare is focused behind him. Curious, he turns. The whirling hum he brushed off as a large insect is actually death, dressed in fuchsia, headed straight for him on a bicycle.

    The whine of the tires grows louder as a man wearing a black ski mask with a fuchsia track suit pedals harder to pick up speed. With a strangled yell Zeke takes a terrified hop-step out of the way, only to be ripped off his feet. Tumbling heels over head down grass and cement, he comes to a hard stop when a tree blocks his path. Head swimming, he distantly registers the sound of footsteps followed by the feel of hands gingerly prodding his body. The biker had missed him but clipped his backpack full force. That explains the burning wrenched feeling in his shoulders. The helping hands of the man that had been staring bring him to a sitting position as his mind begins to clear. Campus security is on its way. The maniac on the bike had stumbled after the hit, but took off again. Zeke turns. The torn remnants of the bag hang off his back, and its contents lie splayed across the cement. Dazed, he realizes this was no accident, someone is trying to hurt him.

Hours later Zeke walks into his living room, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. He wishes his roommate, Danny Tate, wasn’t out of town for a week. After going over the incident with campus security, then again for the police, he was stuck making a list of suspects. The cops had grilled him. Was this the first attack? Could he think of any reason someone would want to harm him? Has he been involved in any illegal activity? Questions and theories were thrown about until it felt like his head would burst. Yes, being alone is definitely a bad thing.  Has the apartment always been so big? Shivering, Zeke makes his way through the apartment, flicking on lights in every room until he’s satisfied there is no one else. He tells himself there’s no need to worry, it’s not like someone’s trying to kill him, but he’s not fully convinced. Sinking onto the couch, all of the lights still on, he falls into a fitful sleep.

The next morning Zeke nervously watches his surroundings for any sign of fuchsia. As the day passes he starts to relax, save the occasional flinch every time a bike comes near. Yesterday was just a freaky fluke. It’s ridiculous to think someone would actually be trying to hurt a harmless nobody like him. He steps onto the stairs just as something hard slams into his back. One arm swings out trying to brace for the impact as the other grips the railing. His knees slam into the stairs with a thud. Zeke catches himself, barely stopping before his face hits the concrete steps. He turns in time to see a flash of pink disappearing on the second floor.

That night he locks the door and checks and rechecks the windows, the lights stay on, and it takes longer for sleep to come.

“Hot damn, Zeke. You look like a three day old corpse,” Alice Edwards, a friend of his, comments the next afternoon as she meets him for lunch in a grassy quad on campus.

“If I look that good just imagine how wonderful I feel.”

“What happened?”

“Some guy in fuchsia has decided I’m on his hit list.”

Nibbling on a cookie Alice stares at him, taking in his tired face. Then she bursts out laughing. He takes a vicious bite from his sandwich, willing her head to catch fire.

Crunch!

The laughter has stopped. Alice and Zeke stare at each other, horrified. Very slowly he puts the sandwich down, opens his mouth and carefully spits the half chewed food out onto his napkin. Nestled in the gooey mush is a glistening shard of glass. Then the taste of copper burns his tongue.

The attacks become more frequent, more deadly, and Zeke grows more terrified. No one can be trusted. Nothing is safe. The man in fuchsia could be anywhere.

Shuffling through the halls on his way to class, Zeke looks at his watch—there’s still an hour before it begins. Funny how no sleep and very little food can mess with a person’s sense of time. His wary eyes scour the hallway for anything suspicious or pink. He sits on a bench lining the wall, waiting for class. Eyes shift left then right, roving over every inch of the space in sight. The quiet seems loud to Zeke, even though it is undisturbed save the steady ticking of his watch and the sound of his labored breath. His lids lower over eyes, his shoulders sag, his chin meets his chest before his head snaps up, sleepy but alert. It’s not safe to sleep.

The darkness is nice, soothing for reasons that can’t be remembered. How easy to just slip away in the darkness. Except…for the burning. No. Not just burning, stinging too. And the pressure. Better to fall back into the cool dark and forget. But the burning is worse. Burning, stinging pressure. Just take a deep breath and sink into oblivion. Zeke can’t breath. He needs air, can’t…

Zeke forces teary eyes open to find the masked face of the man in fuchsia. Thrashing, he wraps his trembling hands around the wrists of his attacker. Fingers dig in with desperation, trying to pry the vice like grip from his throat.

He mumbles in a strangled gasp trying to yell.

Voices from the classroom echo into the hall as the door opens and the hands release. Sputtering for air, Zeke can only watch helpless as the man trying to kill him gets away. That’s it. This has gone on for to long. The police aren’t doing anything if that maniac can get so close. Time to call Danny, tell him what’s been going on, and beg him to come home. If anyone would know how to help, it would be Danny. With this in mind, Zeke rises from the bench and leaves.

Back in his apartment, he calls Danny.  “Someone’s trying to kill me,” he tells him.

 “What?” There is a pause. “That’s really funny man.”

“I’m serious. Someone tried to strangle me when I was napping on a bench.”

“Why the hell were you napping on a bench?”

“Shut up,” Zeke says. “Someone tried to kill me!”

“Was it the hobo whose bench you were sleeping on?”

“It was a man in fuchsia.”

“A fuchsia wearing cross-dressing hobo whose bench you were sleeping on?” Danny asks, unable to contain his laughter.

“Fuck it, Danny. I was at school in the hallway. This nut job has been after me all week.”

“Zeke, Zeke. Calm down. I get it, you’re really freaked out.”

“I need you to come home early, Danny. I’m not safe alone.”

“This had better not be a prank.”

“No!” Zeke interrupts. He takes a shuttering breath before he continues. “I’m serious. If only this was some stupid joke.”

“Calm down. I believe you. It’ll be a day, two tops, and I’ll be home.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Just listen to me, okay? Skip the rest of your classes until I get back, stay in the house and keep safe. It’s not like you have to worry about a bike if your ass is pressed to the couch.  You hear me? Just stay in the house. I’ll be home soon as I can.”

Hanging up, Zeke does another sweep of the apartment. Door and windows are locked; lights are on, nothing unusual. Shuddering and tense he walks into the bathroom to splash water on his face. Movement in the mirror catches his eye. Whirling around, his knees give way and he collapses to the tile floor. Terrified, heart a sharp staccato, he searches for the intruder. Minutes pass, nothing happens, and Zeke realizes the movement was his reflection in the mirror.

 With a shaky breath he uses the toilet for support as he stands. He takes in the pale haggard face staring back at him in the mirror. Frightened hazel eyes ringed in purple bruises from lack of sleep. Rough spots of stubble where his hand trembled and missed while shaving. Matted, and tangled flamingo-pink hair that hasn’t been washed or brushed since the bike incident. Hard to believe that happened just a few days ago. At least Danny was right; nobody can attack with a bike so long as the apartment is locked tight. Wait. Zeke tries to recall the conversation with Danny.

He stumbles from the bathroom into Danny’s bedroom. It looks the same as every other time Zeke came through to check for the man in fuchsia. Danny couldn’t be. It all started with the bike, but Danny had left for the airport that morning. Running a hand through his hair, giving a tug, flamingo-pink catches the edge of his peripheral vision. No. It didn’t start with the bike, it started with the hair. That morning the shampoo was switched with flamingo bloody pink permanent hair dye. But that’s ridiculous.

Feeling boneless Zeke sinks to the floor. His heart hammers harder, breath coming in short gasps. Lying on the floor he tries to keep from hyperventilating. Feeling dizzy and light-headed he slowly opens his eyes. Something is poking out from underneath Danny’s bed. Picking it up he stares, blinks, and drops it. He reaches under the bed and comes in contact with smooth material.  Holding it to the light, his numb fingers lose their grasp.

“It’s really rude to snoop in someone else’s room, Zeke.”

He turns and stares at Danny standing in the doorway, blocking the only exit. The suit is lying on the floor. The fuchsia track suit. The pained betrayal in his eyes is clear when he turns back.

“I don’t understand,” Zeke mutters.

“Don’t you?”

“Why, Danny?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you trying to kill me? Why the hell did you choose fuchsia?”

“Who would ever believe you? A man in fuchsia is trying to kill me. Oh no!” he mocks laughing. “You’ve been losing it all over the place, Zeke. People have noticed. They think you’re headed to a nervous breakdown.”

“Witnesses! There were witnesses for the bike.”

“Eye witnesses aren’t as reliable as they used to be. Memory is a faulty thing, and suggestion is so powerful.”

“People will suspect you.”

“Why? Everyone thinks I’m out of town for a week. It’s the perfect alibi to give the cops when I pretend to be the distraught roommate.”

“But where have you been hiding? I’ve been checking the apartment everyday.”

“I’ve been staying in a sleazy motel about an hour away. When all my other plans failed I decided it was time for a face to face. After strangling you, I came here, planted the costume, and waited.”

“You rat bastard.”

Furious, Zeke rises only to stop cold. With a patronizing smile Danny casually pulls a gun from his pocket. Aiming at the man crouched on the floor, he pulls back the hammer. Terrified, pleading, Zeke tries to understand.

“Why are you doing this?”

Danny’s face twists into a mask of venomous hatred. With a snarl he pulls the trigger. Padding spews from the mattress next to Zeke’s head.

“You ate the last twinkie, you bastard!”

“Wait? What! Twinkie?”

“Yes, the last twinkie. I was saving it as a victory snack for passing my midterms.”

“When did we have twinkies?”

“As if you don’t remember. It was three and a half weeks, two days, six hours, and I don’t care how many minutes ago. I just got back to the apartment after torturous hours of stressful exams and found you sitting on the couch, in your undies, defiling my twinkie!”

“How do you defile a twinkie?”

“I don’t—I—you just did.”

“You’ve been trying to kill me over twinkies?”

“Not twinkies, just the one. My twinkie.”

“I’ll buy you more twinkies. Hell, I’ll give you a twinkie everyday for the rest of my life if you put the gun down.”

“Too late, Zeke. I didn’t go through all this trouble just to let you go.”

A thunderous crack fills the air as Danny pulls the trigger ending the life of his terrified roommate. With a satisfied sigh he leaves the bedroom, planning to watch a movie before disposing of the fuchsia track suit and gun. Tomorrow he’ll call the police pretending to have just found Zeke’s body. Entering the kitchen, he opens a cabinet to grab a bag of microwave popcorn when something catches his eye in the dark corner of the shelf. Reaching in, he pulls out the item, stares, and begins to laugh.

In his hand is the last twinkie. 

Damn the Nice!

My first attempt at a story with humor as the main genre. It's based on a situation that happened to my friend, with embellishment to protect identities. : )

Damn it, I was nice to someone! What is wrong with me? I have the opportunity to spend hours alone with the man I’ve been trying to snag and ruin it by being nice. Of course, I didn’t know we were going to be alone. The plan had been for a few of us to go over to D’s bookstore, help him catalogue the new shipment, and order Chinese take-out. Then I just had to go and ruin it. Some chick comes up to me on the street asking for directions to his shop and I offer to show her the way. I figured it was safe enough; she could get her book and get out. But fate likes to kick me in the crotch and stand there laughing once I’m down. Turns out our friends couldn’t come, it was just me and D, except the fricking girl offered to stay. This is why I’m never nice to people!

So here I am in my new silk shirt, a few buttons open for that take me I’m yours look, and my skinny pin-striped jeans that make my ass look damned perfect, and this girl is chattering away. Hours that could have been spent making beautiful memories are wasted because I did one good deed. The entire night I’ve avoided looking at D, if I do the urge to throw that rambling woman out on the street will be too much. If only I told her he was closed for the night.

Did she just lean into him? Sorry honey, are you ever on the wrong track. D’s gay and if things ever go my way he’s going to be my new lover. That’s right you give her an awkward look and step away. Call it quits? Well, I suppose we have been cataloging for hours. Damn it! That’s time we could have had alone. That’s it. I’m never helping anyone ever again. Unless of course it’s to help D out of his pants, that I would do. Suppose I’ll just walk out into the cold all by my lonesome. At least that girl has to leave too. Don’t let the door hit on the way out. What’s that? Why yes, D, you can walk me home. I’ll even let you stay forever, or at least the night. Still, imagine all the things we could have done if I hadn’t been nice.