[Glenn Epic]

A collection of short stories. Let me know what you think.

#1 The Lover

Jason had no money and no job. He did, however, have a girlfriend. Well, technically, she was an apple. He hated her, though, what could he do? In the end, he was just another bum defecating in just another trash can.

That afternoon Jason ate his girlfriend with a side of discarded nappy, and whilst it wasn’t the best meal he’d ever had, it was pretty fucking good.

“And that’s that” he stated, chasing a paper bag, “Time to find me a new lover.”

Though Jason had only just ‘broken-up’ with his girlfriend, he’d had his eye out for quite some time. Two weeks prior he’d spotted a rare beauty just across the way. She’d spat at him in disgust. This didn’t bother Jason. The way he saw it, any attention was good attention.

Humans are too difficult, he decided. Perhaps he should get himself a nice possum. He’d heard they make great pets. A girlfriend is basically a hyper-evolved, hyper-sensitive pet. A possum could make noise, they could interact! His ex-girlfriend used to just sit there, silently. Fuck her!

So, that said, Jason set out with a goal in mind: To find a cute possum.

Later that day he found his answer. She was standing in the middle of the road. He ran closer. She was lying in the middle of the road.

She was the most beautiful possum he’d ever laid eyes on. He picked her up and stuffed her into his jacket. “Don’t worry babe” He whispered, “I’ve got ya”

He coaxed her gently as they walked back to his den. “So, what’s a cute gal like yourself doing in a neighborhood like this?” He asked.

She didn’t reply.

“So, babe, should we eat out tonight? I’m thinking in” He whispered sweetly.

Again, she didn’t reply.

“You’re a super-sweet thang” He stated.

That night, he ate her with a side of denim.


#2 The Kidder

I met her at a convenience store - her bagging groceries, me buying push-pops. She looked like a fairly capable woman, 75; bagging groceries herself due to incompetence on the opposing side of the register. Her bag split, revealing a sea of Lima beans. Her Dunlop’s squeaked. I lent a hand.

Although my mother taught me never to talk to strangers, substitute any elderly woman for my grandmother and I’d be fucked if I could tell the difference. Far as I was concerned, she was my grandmother. I walked her to the parking lot.

She thanked me twice. Her voice had both the range and timbre of a broken cello though, of the two, hers appeared more difficult to operate. Subsequently, she told me an interesting story; she lived on the same street as I. I let her know I would have remembered her, and in turn, she let me know I had a bad memory. Apparently she’d even greeted me a few times. I was sad to learn I’d never returned the courtesy.

After loading her groceries into the trunk I waved goodbye, and that was that. I didn’t catch her name.

The following week her memory cropped up a few times. She seemed so lonely. An elderly woman with Dunlops shouldn’t be lonely. I wondered which house it was that she lived in, though none of them seemed overly befitting. It was strange when I learnt that hers was the one which blared heavy metal music, the house I used to shake my head and shout “Fucking apes!” at. I’d witnessed her enter. Though with whom she lived, I’d yet to discover.

I knocked on the door thrice, she answered twice. However, the door did not open with a greeting, instead, with the word boysenberry. I laughed, she frowned.

“Butterscotch” She offered gently.

“No thanks” I replied, as she slipped one into my hand and smiled. She motioned for me to come inside.

Dilapidated relics from a bygone era cast a shadow across equally dilapidated, and somewhat concave, floorboards. She had an antique oven. It was used for cooking. This was deduced via basted turkey.

She continued to refer to me by the name of Boysenberry.

“Boysenberry, would you like a hard-boiled candy?” She inquired.

“No thanks” I replied, as she slipped one into my pocket.

What’s with the butterscotch? I wondered, etching a little further away from the oven.

I felt a strangle tingle. Her hand had entered my sleeve, and slipped gracefully into the thicket of my armpit hair. Yes, my armpit! Not my shoulder, no, much too convenient. I was wrong, this bitch was creepy! Though, so was grandma, so I decided to stay.

“Turkey?” She asked.

“Yes please!” I replied. She slipped some into my pocket, which was cool because I was going to eat it later anyway.

“Oh, I almost forgot! Don’t want to miss the show!” She exclaimed excitedly.

Confused, I replied “What show?”

She didn’t answer but, alternatively, led me up a set of stairs… By my armpit hair of course, no, not my shoulder, much too convenient.

She paused. “Look at this crack in the stairs! Tim’s about as useful as a shoe-horn!”

“Who’s tim?” I queried.

She didn’t answer but, alternatively, removed a dead rat from her coat and threw it against a wall. I frowned, she smiled.

“That’s good luck” she informed.

I was taken into a room. It was dark. Three men lay manacled to a radiator.

“Who likes jokes?” She asked, looking at each of her captives, “Good! A priest, policeman, and a construction worker lie manacled to a radiator, a woman walks in, presses a gun to the priests skull and asks ‘What’s the punch line?’”

She produced a pistol and pressed the muzzle flush against the priest’s head.

He winced and said, “Please don’t kill me”

“Wrong, you decadent piece of shit” She exclaimed.

Bang! The priest slumped into a pile. “Next she asks the policeman”

She placed the muzzle against the policeman’s head. After witnessing the incident just prior, he was too shocked to answer.

“Bzzzz, Wrong!” She shouted.

Bang! Another shot was fired. A second lifeless body resulted. The woman spoke again. “Finally, she asks the construction worker.”

She placed the gun against the last man’s head”

“Wrong! There is no punch line” Bang! “They all die!” She broke out into a fit of hysterics. By the time the laughter had subsided, I had gone.

Several weeks passed without as much as a word from the old lady, when suddenly, in the place we first met, I heard a whisper on the wind. “Want to hear a joke?” asked the voice.

“No, but I’ve got one for you” I replied “Want to hear it?”

“Sure thing Boysenberry” she responded..

She didn’t get to hear the punch line because I ran her down in my car. She frowned, I smiled.

...I miss her.

[Glenn Epic]

#3 The Inquisitor

Bobby Ferdinand sat, staring at his sandwich. The crusts had been removed, as per usual. It was served on whole grain bread, also as per usual. Bobby hated sandwiches. Problem was, being two years old, and a late bloomer, he’d had a hard time informing his mother of this.

Bobby wondered what was on the sandwich as he delicately inserted it into the VCR unit. With inquisitive eyes, he was greeted by static.

Bitter defeat in his heart and legs devoid of luster, he focused his limbs and took-to a hallway. Slipping silently into his brother’s room, he fashioned a sloppy seat on a less-than-immaculate rug.

There was a hint of shit in the air. Bobby checked his diaper but found nothing of consequence. Casting aside the pungent aroma, he doodled out a masterpiece on a wall.

“Nice,” he farted.

After a brief moment of topsy-turvy, Bobby braced himself on his brother’s fish tank and, throwing it to the ground, launched himself back into the hallway.

“Mom?” He asked, via a series of taps.

His mother was nowhere to be seen, so he headed toward the medicine cabinet.

The medicine cabinet was the proverbial ‘no-no’ of fun-time. Who knew what mysteries lay behind its misleading palate of reflection, and its sharp, booby-trapped corners of visual rupture?

With quivering legs and heightened awareness Bobby braced a chair against the banister and scrambled toward his prize.

“Jackpot!”. He informed the mirror via a series of abrupt eyebrow movements

Bobby opened the cabinet, removed a brightly colored bottle, and fumbled with the lid.

“Drat, child lock!” He indicated via a brief leg spasm.

He threw the bottle to the floor and grabbed a second. Longing for the delicious nectar, he battled with the lid.

Bobby had almost given up when a sharp, bionic-ear inducing scream caught him off guard. It was his mother. She approached rapidly. Spitting out indiscernible commands, she ceased him, and locked up his contraband.

Several bone shattering punishments later Bobby was aware he’d done something wrong. As to what it was, he couldn’t say.

# 4 The Pineapple Aficionado

James Macaroy ate pineapple for frolics. Be it a lazy, by-the-pool Sunday, or a what-to-do Wednesday, he’d eat pineapple. “Pineapple”, he would say “Is the cornerstone of any good day”.

Today, however, James was not having such a good day. You see, it was November, and the pineapple was out of reach, out of stock, and out of season. James hadn’t had a hit in weeks. He could feel it in his loins. He could feel it in his buttocks. But most of all, he could feel it in his tear glands.

“Gotta get some pineapple” He cried, slapping an elderly passer-by on the bald spot.

And so, down the rabbit hole James went, in search of the elusive fruit.

“I’ll burn this fucking store to the ground!” He threatened in ‘Mr. Partridges Grocer’, “Sod that!” He hollered in ‘Gocerie72’, and “What a cute baby!” He screamed in ‘Toys R Us’.

Aside from a pineapple flavored lollypop and a book with a picture of a pineapple on page 3, the search turned in nothing.

“Sod that!” Cried James, “with the smite of a thousand gazelles, sod that!”.

James burnt Mr. Partridges Grocer to the ground and subsequently spent the next 12 years in lock-up. Actually, an insane asylum… Guess they don’t serve pineapple in prison.

[Intrepid Homoludens]

Evidently no one else here chose to find the time to read and offer feedback on your stories, Glennsie.

Excellent job at conjuring up imagery and character! Brevity is very strongly used to effect, and without sacrificing details. You also manage to give resonance, whether in the interactions between the people or the general visuals.

Some tips. Considering the lack of length and that you want to reveal more through actions and snippets of dialog, you may want to pluck out the six dollar words and complicated conveyances and instead keep the language street-real. Such words stick out as incongruous in an otherwise matter-of-fact, slice-of-life tale.

Dilapidated relics from a bygone era cast a shadow across equally dilapidated, and somewhat concave, floorboards.

The sentence above seems too sophisticated, even verbose, for such a simply told story with dark and almost surreal undertones. Keep the language simple but preserve the lucidity of the imagery.

I may come back with more thoughts on your stories. Thanks for sharing!

[stepurhan]

Time to read. Sort of. Time to give feedback. Not yet.

I actually like the overly complicated language. I think the juxtaposition of that against the down-to-earth settings adds something to the surreal overtones of the stories. I'd be interested in seeing some with more basic language for comparison if you feel up to it Glenn.

[Glenn Epic]

Thanks for the advice guys, duly noted.

I'll post some newer stuff in here soon.