Archive for the Category »Short Stories «
There’s the grammar everyone should know and if they don’t, they need to take a seat back in the first grade. Like ending that previous sentence with a period (full stop if you’re not American) instead of, say, a semi-colon. That’s the “duh” grammar. Then there’s the not-so-duh grammar that get people into heated debates over cubicles. The proper plural for a computer mouse, for example, will get people red in the face. (I stand by mouses.) The Toasted Scimitar points out some common, albeit relatively unknown (read: socially acceptable), grammar mistakes that we all make. Go read it. It has some good tips. However, I’d like to add my own twelve cents to the mix on a few points.
Ardyth speaks about dialogue tags that are either talking words or actions. Said and asked for the former and something like groaned or spat would be the latter. She states that only talking tags should be used with a comma immediatly following the dialogue while the action follows in it’s own separate sentence.
I beg to differ. I think an excellent way to determine what is actually physically feasible as a dialogue tag would be to actually act out what your character is saying. Words can be sighed, groaned, whined and burped. They can’t be blinked, frowned or ejaculated (sorry, J.K., lets leave that to the seminal fluid). This was how I was always taught and it’s something that actually makes sense. When I see something like–
“I guess.” He sighed.
–I see choppy sentences. There’s a full beat between the dialogue and the action that goes with it, making the action and the words entirely independent of each other. Imagine how a character would physically do that. They’d say something, stop, and then sigh. Feels contrived. But if you have something like this–
I figured it was about time I posted my short story that placed in the Rosalie Fleming Memorial Humor Prize (of which I spelled it Felming on the envelope, nice to know it didn’t matter). Just to give you a frame of reference, I got the notice at the end of January and did the reading at the end of March. So I’m a little slow in getting it up. The important thing is that it’s up! It’s always a good feeling to make an auditorium of people laugh. FYI, this was recognized under my legal name, not my pen name.
Having a chest that more closely resembles a couple of aspirin than anything of the mammary persuasion, I needed something. A Natural Bra was that thing. It’s not that I needed the support but I just don’t like the idea of my shirt lying flush against my breastbone and don’t see nipples as being the new earrings so I needed a cover and plump. So I bought them and the first thing I did when I got home was try them on. For those unfamiliar with such delusions of grandeur, they’re similar to the hormone-injected chicken breasts you can buy at the grocery store with rubber cement smeared on one side minus the freezer burn.
I reveled in the fact that, once clasped, I had what I would call cleavage. Granted, if I didn’t finagle the girls just right, not only would I get the standard cleavage line but I would also get this alternate route crease that rode along the inner edge of my right boob. To remedy the fork in the boob, I would have to pull one off to the side, stretch it across my boob and clamp, all this while watching in the mirror so I didn’t end up with one on my shoulder or something. Although the right one needed to get stuck practically under my armpit to compensate for it’s lack of size.
Originally posted under Kate Boddie. According to one editor, this is Mad Magazine-y. Not sure if that’s a compliment or not but I’ll take what I can get.
Twas the night before dinner of the holiday kind;
My wife’s on amphetamines and I’m losing my mind.
My testicles were grabbed by her fist without care
For I didn’t know the green beans didn’t go there.
I asked for fresh turkey cause that kind’s the best.
And dear Kevin claims it was all in good jest.
But since there’s now wild poultry shitting in my shoe,
I want to weld his ass to the toilet seat using the strongest of glue.
Will someone get this fucking bird out of here?
Linda’s got a list of who can eat what and when—
Constipation for Nana and acid reflux for Ken.
So now our bathroom’s filled with laxatives and Tums;
When it comes to bodily functions, god forbid people remain mum.
Originally posted under Kate Boddie.
“Officer, please. Is it necessary to put your foot on his head?” My cousin, Pam. The man with the badge-wearing appendage on his face is Cal, her husband. “Really, he didn’t mean to throw the turkey at you.”
“Ma’am, I am fully aware of when someone uses a piece of poultry as a projectile with malicious intent. I could have been seriously injured.”
I want to know how many Quaaludes he was on not to laugh at his own statement, not to mention how much tryptophan was in the turkey to stifle our reactions. I don’t think the piece of soggy skin that slapped the officer in the face, thrown by one of Pam’s spawn, made the situation any better, nor did his beet-red partner. In all the effort of trying not to laugh, small instances of boogey hurtled out of his nose accompanied by tears streaming down his face and body heaves rolling out of his shoulders.
“Damn it, Ned. Will you get a hold of yourself?”
At least Officer Ned’s holiday spent working was dimly brightened although I don’t doubt this will be the last domestic call they’ll make. The Cowboys are playing the Colts. It’s just bound to get uglier somewhere else; salt and vinegar chips can be extraordinarily painful if used properly.
Originally posted under Kate Boddie and part of an Absolute Write Flash Fiction Carnival.
“He’s going to die of carbon monoxide poisoning,” Gillian said as she puffed on her cigarette.
“That’s . . . just . . . great, Gillian. Why don’t you hand William a fire poker and tell him to just finish the man off? No sense in letting him clog the chimney all alive.”
“Daddy, is Santa gonna die?” William was only six and still firmly steeped in the Santa myth although the notion of his unreality had, thanks to the Sanderson’s chimney, been disproven.
“No, son. Santa’s going to be just fine. The firefighters are going to do all they can to save him.”
“Might as well write his eulogy now, Willy, because I sure as hell am not going to let them tear apart my chimney.”
“What’s a u-no-gee?”
“Did you forget to take your mother pill before you went to bed? There’s a living man in the chimney and you’re talking about slow-roasting him.”
“Yes, because I want the stink of burning flesh to permeate my upholstery.”
“Have you no heart?”
“Ted, it’s three a.m. on Christmas morning and I’m ankle deep in snow in nothing but a bathrobe and slippers. How would you feel?”
Written under Kate Boddie and part of an Absolute Write Flash Fiction Carnival. To see the original post, click here.
“You’ve changed, man. You’ve changed. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“What–what are you talking about? I’m that guy that you know. You know . . . me”
“C’mon, man. You’re slurring your words. You’re drunk again, aren’t you? I can smell it from here.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Timmy. I’m as dandy as mashed peaches. Got any?”
“Billy, ever since you landed that part playing Sandra Bullock’s son, you’ve gotten more and more out of control. You don’t listen to the right people anymore. The rest of them are bad influences. Just look at yourself. Your mouth’s all crusted over in food. Is that even from today?”
“Aw, you’re–you’re just jealous of my success, you parasite. The cheese is better than you? You said cheese? You got any cheese?”
“Cheese, Bill? Cheese?” You’re so lactose intolerant you can’t go within fifty feet of the stuff. Do you even know what you’re saying? Do you know what you sound like right about now? The word ‘wino’ comes to mind.”
It was a blow dart. As in you blow in one end and a dart shoots out the other. Blow dart.
“And what am I supposed to do with this?”
“Shoot him with it. We’re a non-violent community. We don’t like guns or tasers. This’ll just knock him out.”
For a senior citizen complex, I could understand the bid for peace but this lunatic needed Ketamine, not a spit wad dipped in Ny-Quil.
“Dammit, Lou. How many times do I got to tell you? No arrows!”
Lou had come running out of his house, a quiver of arrows slung around his back and a long-bow in hand.
“God’s Christ, Rick, you dirty hippy. Free love ain’t going to control this guy.”
“Lou,” Rick said, his jowls quivering under his shaking head, “you forgot your flak vest. Why don’t you go put it on and let the officer do his job.”
Lou grumbled obscenities as he walked away, his rubber flip flips kicking up dirt as he went. Welcome to my hell. I wanted New York City. I got Pensacola, Florida. Bit of a stretch…gaping precipice, really. I’ll bet there aren’t any blow darts in Manhattan, just anti-aircraft rifles.
