Tags: bullies, flash fiction, revenge
This is Flash for Chuck’s site. This week was actually just this weekend, he wanted 100 words on bullying. I posted on there earlier a link to my story “Visceral,” telling him I already wrote a bullying piece. That was actually for the challenge on revenge, but when you read it, you’ll know. I accused him of trying to bully another piece out of me.
I guess he got it.
I see you.
What a pussy. You’re weak.
God, you’re so tiny and frail. I hate weakness. You have to strong. My dad says so. He made me-
He made me strong. See my scars?
Oh, big deal, so you’re smart. That won’t protect you. It’s gonna be worth detention to smear your face into the lockers.
Then I’ll have respect.
Then the others won’t look at me like that.
Your friends can’t protect you, either. Your friends are weak, asthmatic little bitches, too.
I sit alone in detention, feeling my power. I love it.
I’ll never admit it’s lonely.
Tags: flash fiction, vampires
Lori didn’t remember dying, but she remembered the night leading up to it.
It was the mysterious stranger, with just enough danger about him to make her swoon. His extravagant gifts, his steely grey eyes, and his impeccable manors made her curious about this man who was obviously too good for her. She felt he could read her–didn’t he know she was damaged goods?
Their passionate love-making turned violent, and she expected that. What she didn’t expect was the dying. But she’d seen enough Buffy to know what to do. And now here she was, in a box.
Fuckin aye. I’m never paying taxes again.
The knowledge came to her naturally. She knew she was a vampire. She knew James had sired her. She knew that she belonged to him now. Extricating herself from the coffin was tricky. It should have been easier, but James had decided to test her by weighing the coffin down, sealing the lid, and putting it in concrete. The concrete hadn’t set yet, and Lori was free. Where was James? “What the hell?”
This wasn’t his mansion-like condo. This was a fucking warehouse by the river. “James!” Lori called out. “James, I can feel you. I can find you, my love.”
Across town, James felt her home in on him, and felt sick. “Fuck.” She had turned, and turned quickly. It was supposed to be just a quick meal. In the end, she lunged at him and bit him. On purpose. The bitch knew what she was doing. He had to get out of here.
Lori killed several people getting into his house. James had been busy trying to pack up what was truly important to him. But he was two hundred years old and had accumulated a large amount of crap. He was also a pack rat by nature and unwilling to part with anything.
So Lori found him in the back of a stolen U-Haul truck, one-third full of precious Revolutionary War era antiques, early 60s kitsch, and unopened Star Wars action figures. “James! My Love!”
James looked like the proverbial deer in headlights. He dropped the framed Clockwork Orange movie poster.
“Uhm…hi. Hello, my dear.”
“Well, I passed the test you set up for me. I hope you are pleased.” Lori walked to him seductively, her hips swaying and her tramp stamp visible from the rear between her low-riding jeans and half-shirt. “Got any smokes?”
James tried to think, but it was hard. First of all, he was never good under pressure. It was peer pressure that made him a vampire. He had kept alive this long mostly by hiding.
He wasn’t clear on how much she could read him. He could read her, loud and clear. She wanted to stay with him forever. FOREVER. When you’re immortal, that’s less of a promise and more of a threat.
“Say, James…where ya going, anyway? Trying to leave town?” By now she was in his face, and mixed with the smell of death he could detect cigarettes, cheap beer, and cheaper perfume. All he could see was her chest. Lori had prided herself on her tits. They had gotten her farther than her GED ever did. Pushing 40, she looked like she was rode hard and put away wet. But now she’ll never age anymore. Her tits were sagging as far as they were going to sag. Her raspy truck-stop waitress voice would never get any deeper, and neither would her crow’s feet.
James felt cold hands pick up and throw him against the wall of the truck.
“You’re not going anywhere, you cocksucker!” There was fire in Lori’s eyes. “No one…is ever leaving me again.”
James got up quickly and took a swing at her. It was lightning fast with supernatural speed. To Lori, it was slow and clumsy. She grabbed his arm, bent it back, and put him to his knees, with his face in a box of Matchbox cars.
“Listen up, James. We’re both on a level playing field. We’re both vampires.” She bent his arm further and he grunted. “But for the last twenty years, I’ve had a few husbands and half a dozen boyfriends, and all of them liked to beat me. And rape me.” She brushed her hair out of her face. “Are you sure you don’t have any smokes?
“Anyway, you would not believe the number of times I’ve been forced to suck a dirty cock with a broken bottle to my throat.” She bent his arm further, until it snapped, then pushed him over. Hard.
“And that’s when I started to take self-defense lessons. Tae Kwon do, grav maga, kick-boxing. Before I was turned, you might have had a chance at stopping me. But now, there’s no fucking way, pal.”
James tried not to whimper. He was bewildered. What the fuck was with women these days?
Lori looked at him, and momentarily took pity on him. She bent down and caressed his cheek tenderly. “James, you’re not a bad guy. I like you. Really, I do. And the sex wasn’t awful. You’re not like the other guys I’ve been with. You’re sweet. You aren’t violent, you aren’t abusive. You’re a fountain of nerd. You’re exactly what I need. More or less. It’s something to work with, anyway.”
She hopped down from the truck.
“I’ll tell you what, cowboy. You take all your little trinkets and shit back in the house. I’ll let you keep them. Some of them. But I’m moving in. I am not going back to that trailer.” She fished for the keys to James’ sporty Volvo from the pocket of his dead driver. “Seriously, James? A Volvo?
“Anyway, I’m going to go grab some smokes. I’ll bring you back someone to eat.”
As Lori drove away, James brightened up somewhat. His arm no longer hurt and it was starting to heal. Maybe this is what he needs. A woman. A real woman. A strong, decisive woman.
Tags: recipes, Wiseguy Chef
You know, I thought I had already posted this here, but I guess not. This is my retaliation for all the goddamn blogs out there that every Suzy-fucking-Homemaker puts up and puts all of her recipes on, like we give a shit. I don’t do a lot, but I have about a dozen recipes, and they are good shit. I know my baked potato soup is on here somewhere. I’ll go back and tag it as a recipe. Maybe I’ll add my others at some point, depending on how well behaved you are. This is in the voice of my alternate persona, the Wiseguy Chef. He don’t fuck around. Evah.
Listen up, punks, ‘cause I finally got this right, so pays attention. This is my special Alfredo. You can use fettuccini noodles if you like that shit all over your chin. Personally, I use the bowtie because I like it fancy crap. Pay attention.
The amounts work like this:
2 tablespoons a butta
Some garlic clove or what-have-you (in some form), or minced garlic in a jar, or whatever floats your canoe, Skippy. A couple o’ teaspoons.
1 quart heavy whipping cream
Dill–just shake a lot in there. If you measure it I’ll come over and kick your ass. With authority I can say about 2 teaspoons
12 oz provolone cheese — more if you like. Yeah, the shredded shit. Are you a dumbass?
Lotsa Romano cheese (or parmesan, or a mix of)-if you want exact figures, call it a quarter cup. Happy now, bitch?
3 tablespoons o’ sour cream- just do it and shut up.
18 oz of noodles (1 and 1/2 packages of 12 oz noodles, if you can’t do the math, you retard. Buy 3 boxes, then you can do it twice.)
Okay, in a sauce pan of some sort big enough for a quart of cream, melt some butta. Add the garlic, or whatever. Low heat, melt the butta and stir the garlic.
Pour in cream, turn up the heat. Add the dill and don’t walk away from it. Don’t burn it, don’t let it boil over. As soon as it starts to boil, turn down heat, pour in Romano or parmesan, and the sour cream. Turn the heat back on, stir, let it boil again slightly. Let it boil, turn the heat down, let it simma for a bit. Not long. Take it off the heat when it feels right for ya. It’ll thicken up, like your head.
Remember the noodles? While all this shit was going on, you shoulda boiled the water and then cooked the noodles. Don’t over-cook them because we are putting them in the oven. But they don’t need to be al dente either. If you don’t know what that means, fuck you. Cook the noodles, drain, and put the noodles in a friggin casserole dish. Nine by thirteen? How the fuck should I know? It’s about the size of my dick. Pour da sauce over it, stir it some, and den pour da cheese on top. Heap it on. If it looks like you put too much cheese on there, it’s right and you’re wrong.
Then, put that shit in the oven, 350 degrees American for 15 or 20 minutes. If you want metric, the temperature is fuck you. Ya want the cheese melted, and you want it a little brown. If you start the stuff at the same time, the sauce should be done before the noodles, so you can let it stand for bit outta the way whilst you deal with the noodles and what-have-you. Don’t fuck it up.
Once you master this, you can do some uther stuff. I’m not big on the mushrooms, but you can do that if you want. It’s your funeral, asshole.
I’ve cooked up chicken breast and diced them up and added it, and that’s good. I like broccoli, too. Obviously you would add it before you add the cheese and bake it. I’m just guessing here. Same for the peas and carrots if that floats your boat. Just don’t fuckin eyeball me.
You know what’s good is steak tips, seasoned and cooked on the grill, and broccoli, and then some of the noodles. I’m just sayin.
Oh, you know, sometimes I cheat a bit and buy two jars of Alfredo sauce already made. If you ever tells anyone, I’ll fuckin kill ya. Is that funny to you? What, am I funny? Funny how? Fuck you, that’s how. Get the shit heavy on the garlic, if you ax me. It’s quick and it’s cheap, like your mom.
Tags: flash fiction, horror, monsters
This is another in the series of flash fiction from Chuck Wendig’s site “Terrible Minds.” The theme this week was to write a thousand words about a brand new monster. Being a monster is all about the state of mind.
To see more, catch a wave and surf over here:
Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: A Brand New Monster
The monster sat on the bench at the playground. Its nestling frolicked and played with the human children, carefully controlled by the monster. It didn’t want its nestling to reveal itself; that was the point of this training exercise. You have to know how to act around them.
The monster reflected about her mentor. It taught her the history of their people, and how often they lived among the humans, but could never be one of them. At least their penchant for violence was a smooth cover for a monster’s survival. Its mentor had died in prison, finally being caught. It happens to monsters as they age, and get more brazen. All those tiny bodies—
It was still young when her teacher was captured, and it was easy to play the victim. Twenty years later, no one remembered who it was. A different kind of monster.
It was broken from its thoughts when Sally took the nestling’s toy. The creature didn’t cry or react in anyway. Sally’s over-protective mother stepped in, apologizing. She made Sally apologize also. Bobby was unfazed. Instead, it watched, and plotted.
Later at the top of the jungle gym, all was forgotten. Bobby and Sally were playing. “Go ahead, jump.”
“No, you jump.”
“You jump first.”
“Are you a scaredy-cat?”
When the ambulance came to take Sally away with a piece of rusted metal through her foot, the monster and her nestling were long gone, leaving when the crowd gathered.
Things had gone better than it had expected.
The monster, Mrs. Walker, looked down at her spawn and created a smile on its face. This is what a mother would do, it thought. You were such a good boy, today, Bobby.
The child-creature looked up, did not speak. The words were projected. Can I play with my toy when we get home?
The monster responded in kind. No, you broke that one, remember? We’ll get a new one.
The nestling clapped and squealed, the way it had been taught that a four year old would react. But it was genuinely happy. A new toy–
Amy was dropped off at the Walker’s by her boyfriend Trevor. Excellent, the monster thought, as she pursed her lips in disapproval. When Amy appeared at the door, Mrs. Walker stood waiting. “Amy, I know your mother doesn’t like you to be with that boy. He’s a bad seed.”
Amy scoffed and rolled her eyes.
The monster reveled in the energy of Amy’s rebellion. It felt soothing as she absorbed it. Pretending to dismiss it, Mrs. Walker said, “Well, I’m off to work now. Bobby is in the family room, in the basement.”
Amy went through the hall and down the steps. The monster heard Amy’s footsteps, and heard them stop. It heard the clicking of the light switch, and an annoyed groan from Amy.
“Bobby? Mrs. Walker, the light’s out in the basement. Mrs. Walker?”
The footsteps revealed that Amy was proceeding down the steps slowly. Saliva dripped from the monster’s lips even though it remained hidden, waiting.
“Bobby? Where are you? It’s Amy!”
The monster heard a thump, and Amy cried out. Then she screamed. Mrs. Walker ran down the steps and pulled the cord for the light. She was so proud at what she saw. Her little spawn captured its prey, all on its own.
Amy was in hell. She had no idea how it could get worse. This little maniac four-year old brat was stronger than he looked, and a devious bastard! She was tied up, sitting on the floor against the wall. That’s all she knew because she was blindfolded. She was gagged, and couldn’t scream out. She started to struggle furiously.
The nestling had been taught to wait until the prey regained consciousness. The struggling was its cue. Amy’s body stiffened and she screamed against her gag as she felt the searing pain in her toes. Oh God oh God oh God oh God ooohhh what is happening to me?
Her eyes were uncovered and she saw little Bobby’s face right in front of hers. His eyes gleamed and his mouth was covered in blood. He grinned, revealing her toes.
Mrs. Walker stepped up as Amy passed out. That’s all for now, young one.
She felt the nestling protest. Now, now. You know the rules. They have to be awake when we eat them.
She carefully treated the unconscious girl’s wounds to keep them from getting infected. Nothing was worse than the taste of infection. Right up there on the list was the liver of an old buck, like that homeless man they had last month. Remember that one? the monster thought.
Bobby giggled at that. He was a scaredy-cat.
The monster had told the police that Amy never showed up to babysit. Trevor’s testimony was in dispute, because he claimed to have dropped her off. But Trevor was a bad seed–a troubled kid from a broken family. He had a record, including drugs and some violence. Who was more believable, the bad kid, or the pillar of the community–Mrs. Walker–that had introduced them in the first place?
Besides, the only power the monster actually had was the ability to manipulate what others thought. She turned the investigation toward Trevor.
For the next few weeks, Amy learned exactly how her situation could get worse. Slowly, she was eaten alive.
Before Amy died, Trevor had hung himself in jail while awaiting trial. Mrs. Walker wished she had some influence in making that happen, but he did it on his own.
There wasn’t much left of the arms or legs, so Mrs. Walker and her child were naked, rolling in blood, as they dined on the rib meat of Amy.
Out loud, she told Bobby what happened, so that Amy could hear. Amy’s eyes had glazed over—there was no more feeling left in them, just hysterical disbelief.
The tiny creature cackled and got in Amy’s face and taunted her. “Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat!”