January 12, 2012
Story: The Lowly Trinity

I.

Fore perched on the stool, leering at the ashtray of peanuts. The repurposed ashtray; a good detail to spot there. Yes, Holmes! The game’s afoot! Finally, the origin of the Peanut Killer would be uncovered. He hailed his own good fortune and cooed across to his friend:

-Hi, Chadwick! I see there’s trouble brewing. There she was, nestling against the bar across the way. Chadwick had noticed her, of that there was no doubt, but he broadcast his disdain for the whole affair like wartime propaganda. Patently false.

-Chaaaaadwiiiiick, Fore eulogized. You shall prevail. I must tell you, this is not the place. I say to you, he said, that you do have a wonderful ability to be of your own mind. This does not mean you cannot be wrong! Let her be. She is Unsuitable.

You, wrong… unsuitable. Chadwick considered this. He spoke: Fore, thank you. Yours is the wisdom of Croesus, Solomon, Wilde. I shall have to retire to the convenience and meditate upon this coxcomb.
Chadwick had a remarkable talent for speaking with his eyes, thought Fore.

 

II.

As when the mighty whirlpool churns the bronzed Ocean, so did he stir his drink, fold on fold. The goblet glistened amongst the treasures of the house as the champions celebrated with righteous temper. Like the snake of the garden, the beast Fore cried to him. But Chadwick son of Charles had no thoughts for his pleas. He knew well of the far-distant woman, promised to another. No lovelorn fool was he.

Fore approached to address him. He spoke words of kindness, but words of defeat. He spoke well, but Chadwick’s taste was for deed, not word, and he listened to Fore’s words as a strong-backed horse listens to the storm from his barn: with curiosity, but resolute and strong. He gave Fore a look of ice, but did not speak.

The woman was not his prize and he did not care. Chadwick strode towards the golden door. He had business to attend to.

 

III.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t… hey, not bad. Nice shoes, nice bum. Stirs his brink in a broody kind of way too – a guaranteed sign of a guy with something to hide. That or he’s trying to look like one, but that’d be fine too. Just don’t look, that’s when they come. Come on, Captain Broody, slink over here. Just leave it. Hmm, are those stools oak? Nice to see someone make an –

…Chadwick? Really? God, that’s nice. “and this is Chadwick,” I’d say. Unless he made me call him Chad. Ugh.

What are they talking about? Actually, only the fat one is talking, but he emotes enough for two. Arms flying about like… salmon. There’s a weak metaphor. No, simile? They wouldn’t know the difference. Sometimes it feels like there’s just talking and breathing, and then you shut up and die. So what’s little Chadwick’s game? Does his silence mean he’s got a lot saved up to say? Looks like he’s not going to say it yet, he’s getting up. He’s walking away. There’s goes another one.

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Filed under: 500w fiction joyce ripoff 
January 10, 2012
Story: Squeak

“We’ll put some sello-tape down. That catches them. Don’t worry, it’ll be humane.” That’s what the tallest one said. He’s scared. He should be, because I am a mouse and I will fuck you up.

Don’t believe me? Leave out some crumbs for the night, see how long they last. I’ll have them, and your gerbil for dessert. Try and stop me; I’ll be out of there quicker than your wife at a paternity test, sunshine.

My current residency is pretty cushy, tell ya the truth. There’s tally, he’s alright ‘cos he wears those rubber feet all the time. You can hear him coming from tiles away. The one with long hair is okay, but a risk. He likes to think I’m cute, but he might do something stupid to impress his girlfriend. You learn to watch out for these things after you’ve got a few houses under your belt. Why d’you think I didn’t touch his Emmental?

The female, she’s my saviour. Pretty tasty too – take it from a rodent with a backstage pass. If it weren’t for her I reckon the tall one or the loud one would’ve had the whole house laced with the stuff that made Jerry keel over last week. Good mate, he was. Could spot a loose floor board a mile off.

Not that I’m worried. I’m smarter than all that trail-of-cheese rubbish. And I’ve got plans, dreams! Gonna go legit, one day. Been hearing from a few of the folks… out in the country, would you believe! Well lah-di-dah for the field mice.  But it’s tough when you’re more used to street-sweepers than snowy owls. Whatever they are. It’s just not natural, I tell you.

Perhaps I’ll get tired of this game, someday. It won’t happen soon. There’s moulding fruit to sample, chair legs to chew, and a sponge to shit on for good measure. And if you’re not careful, I will.

Because I am a mouse. And I will fuck. You. Up.

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Filed under: 500w fiction 

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