Once more I want to thank everyone who participated. Here is the work of the last, but certainly not least, winner of my Halloween Horror flash fiction contest, John Di Rosa:
I have a problem saying I love you.
The last time I said these words the recipient was less than over joyed. The gleefully ecstatic acceptance of this term was far from forthcoming. Instead of mulling glee and an expected response of I love you too the receiver of such good will suffered terrible trauma.
Her hair line started to pull backward which erased the lines of stress on her forehead built up waiting for such great news. As the skin pulled back the eyebrows burst into subtle flame. I don't know how burst and subtle work in this description but none the less if you had been witness you would have to agree.
As the skin continued to pull back it released itself from the eye sockets leaving a shadow on the once stately brown iris. Upon further observance of the eyes, they drained of all color and became white globules which in turn burst, spraying jellied blood fibers onto the collar of my tennis shirt.
As the face pulled from the bone structure of the nose a wet tearing sound started to build. A few small blackhead pimples sprayed the caked oils and actually made the stretched skin look younger for a time. Mercifully the skin broke at the line of the ears which leaves one less horror to describe.
As the lips started to thin out and pull away from the gums small snapping sounds emanated from the once beautiful (if only to me) face and some stray facial hairs blackened the pink gums.
This hideous mask suspended itself for a few dripping seconds then instantly dried and fell to the floor like cheap parchment.
While I stared in disbelief at the uncovered skull I was consumed with conscious terror. Never again would I verbalize such an uncommon yet welcomed emotion.
Showing posts with label Short Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Writing. Show all posts
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Halloween Flash Fiction winner #2, Hammond House by Mary Vettel
Here is winner #2! Congrats to Mary Vettel!
Hammond House by Mary Vettel
It was not The Summer of ’42. It was not The Summer of Love. It was the summer my parents took us to Hammond House. My sister and I were teenagers and had no interest in this Revolutionary War museum. It was comprised of three separate houses –from the 1600s, 1700s, and 1800s - that were brought together. The curator lived in the Civil War era portion and gave us free reign to walk about giving ourselves the tour. My sister and mother remained downstairs in the 1600s house while my father and I went upstairs where a lot of farm equipment and hand tools were on display. They were desperately in need of repair, rusty, the leather torn, and the wood rotten with what looked to be termite holes. Not exactly something you’d ooh and ahh over.
Dad and I entered another room that was empty and in mid-July I saw my breath. We quickly exited and headed for the door to go downstairs. Near the door stood a dress dummy that appeared to be at least a hundred years old. I bent to feel the material at the hem and the dummy rolled up a ramp toward me; up a ramp that had been put there to keep it from rolling around. My father and I raced down the stairs, erupting into the room where my mother and sister were admiring a spinning wheel.
My mother said, “You two look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
Not quite, but close. Dad and I stood at an antique writing desk explaining about the dress dummy when a small bouquet of dried flowers rose up from a pewter vase, hovered, then fell to the floor.
Mom asked my father how he did that. As though he’d arrived ahead of us and rigged the joint. Dad disavowed any knowledge and studied the pewter vase, determining there were no springs or strings involved. I had a real good case of the creeps at that point and wanted to leave.
As a group we moved along to the 1700s section of the house. I stood near the large fireplace when a candle in a pewter holder rose up off the mantle, hovered, then fell to the floor. My mother again asked my dad how he did that and told him to knock it off before he scared us. Too late. Dad examined the candleholder, most likely looking for springs or strings. I heard them suggest the summer heat had something to do with the expansion or shrinkage of the wax, etc. My sister and I weren’t buying any of it.
We moved on to the curator’s section of the house and sat in his living room as he spoke about the curator’s duties. We heard footsteps above and my mom asked to speak with his wife. He said his wife and kids were out and he was alone in the house. My sister and I thought this was odd and excused ourselves to wait out in the sweltering car.
My parents joined us about a half hour later and, as we made the drive home, they sprung the news on us that we were going to be moving into Hammond House as the next curators. It was a done deal. We had no recourse, no amount of complaining, protesting, or reasoning would change their minds. They’d already found a buyer for our Bronx home. Contracts were signed. My mother tried to soften the blow by saying my sister and I would finally have our own bedrooms. My father told her about the frigid room that was to have been mine and thought it best if my sister and I remained roomies.
We moved in a few weeks later. The footsteps continued. The cold room remained cold even in August. The feelings of being constantly watched never ceased. The sensation that someone was right behind you on the stairs. My sister and I took turns as lookout while the other showered. Things disappeared and turned up elsewhere. My teachers didn’t want to hear, ‘My ghost ate my homework.’
One of my jobs was to hang the flag in the morning and take it down in the evening and I always heard a small boy’s laughter though we were miles from anyone. Negative energy permeated the place and arguments grew out of nothing. We lasted that one school year and were back in the Bronx by the end of June.
Hammond House by Mary Vettel
It was not The Summer of ’42. It was not The Summer of Love. It was the summer my parents took us to Hammond House. My sister and I were teenagers and had no interest in this Revolutionary War museum. It was comprised of three separate houses –from the 1600s, 1700s, and 1800s - that were brought together. The curator lived in the Civil War era portion and gave us free reign to walk about giving ourselves the tour. My sister and mother remained downstairs in the 1600s house while my father and I went upstairs where a lot of farm equipment and hand tools were on display. They were desperately in need of repair, rusty, the leather torn, and the wood rotten with what looked to be termite holes. Not exactly something you’d ooh and ahh over.
Dad and I entered another room that was empty and in mid-July I saw my breath. We quickly exited and headed for the door to go downstairs. Near the door stood a dress dummy that appeared to be at least a hundred years old. I bent to feel the material at the hem and the dummy rolled up a ramp toward me; up a ramp that had been put there to keep it from rolling around. My father and I raced down the stairs, erupting into the room where my mother and sister were admiring a spinning wheel.
My mother said, “You two look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
Not quite, but close. Dad and I stood at an antique writing desk explaining about the dress dummy when a small bouquet of dried flowers rose up from a pewter vase, hovered, then fell to the floor.
Mom asked my father how he did that. As though he’d arrived ahead of us and rigged the joint. Dad disavowed any knowledge and studied the pewter vase, determining there were no springs or strings involved. I had a real good case of the creeps at that point and wanted to leave.
As a group we moved along to the 1700s section of the house. I stood near the large fireplace when a candle in a pewter holder rose up off the mantle, hovered, then fell to the floor. My mother again asked my dad how he did that and told him to knock it off before he scared us. Too late. Dad examined the candleholder, most likely looking for springs or strings. I heard them suggest the summer heat had something to do with the expansion or shrinkage of the wax, etc. My sister and I weren’t buying any of it.
We moved on to the curator’s section of the house and sat in his living room as he spoke about the curator’s duties. We heard footsteps above and my mom asked to speak with his wife. He said his wife and kids were out and he was alone in the house. My sister and I thought this was odd and excused ourselves to wait out in the sweltering car.
My parents joined us about a half hour later and, as we made the drive home, they sprung the news on us that we were going to be moving into Hammond House as the next curators. It was a done deal. We had no recourse, no amount of complaining, protesting, or reasoning would change their minds. They’d already found a buyer for our Bronx home. Contracts were signed. My mother tried to soften the blow by saying my sister and I would finally have our own bedrooms. My father told her about the frigid room that was to have been mine and thought it best if my sister and I remained roomies.
We moved in a few weeks later. The footsteps continued. The cold room remained cold even in August. The feelings of being constantly watched never ceased. The sensation that someone was right behind you on the stairs. My sister and I took turns as lookout while the other showered. Things disappeared and turned up elsewhere. My teachers didn’t want to hear, ‘My ghost ate my homework.’
One of my jobs was to hang the flag in the morning and take it down in the evening and I always heard a small boy’s laughter though we were miles from anyone. Negative energy permeated the place and arguments grew out of nothing. We lasted that one school year and were back in the Bronx by the end of June.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Halloween Flash Fiction Winner - Sentinels by Kevin Bufton
Over the next few days, I'm going to post the winners' flash fiction entries from my Halloween contest up for everyone to enjoy, since Blogger didn't approve of the 750-word limit (ok'd by the authors, of course!).
Thank you, Kevin, for your hard work and for allowing me to post your story up on my blog.
SENTINELS by KEVIN G. BUFTON
Copyright Kevin G. Bufton 2011
Lehman walked awkwardly down the corridor, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the ornate marble floor as he struggled to support the girl's weight. She had been gratifyingly mute since leaving the limousine – a potent cocktail of champagne and sedatives had seen to that – which was all to the good. After all, he had not purchased her for her conversation.
He stopped before the boy's private quarters and rapped sharply on the door with his free hand. He entered without waiting for an answer and was not surprised to find Michael sat up in bed, reams of computer printout spread before him. He did not look up from the work and Lehman was not entirely convinced that he had even noticed him coming in.
“Good morning, Michael,” Lehman said.
“Mr. Lehman,” the boy replied, his eyes not leaving the pages before him.
“How are you this morning?”
Michael ignored the question. “We should get out of United Steel,” he said. “Their stock will spike on Thursday morning, but it will crash by the time the market closes.”
Lehman did not bother asking him how he knew. “Then we should wait until it spikes?” he asked.
“No, before that,” Michael replied. “We need to sink that money into Denton Holdings before the drop.”
“Denton?”
“Of course,” Michael said. “Their value will skyrocket within hours of United going under. We stand to make a small fortune.”
Lehman nodded to himself and half-dragged the girl towards a low chair at the side of the bed. As he threw her roughly into it, Michael looked up from his paperwork, his eyes suddenly alight.
“You brought me one,” he said, breathlessly.
“First of the month, Michael,” Lehman said. “Have I ever let you down?”
“No,” the young man replied. “No, indeed not.” He moistened his dry lips with his tongue, swinging his legs out from the bed and dropping to his knees before the woman. He waved his hand in a serpentine motion before her face and smiled as her glazed eyes followed its every movement. He covered her eyes with his hand.
“Name,” he said.
“Sarah,” the woman replied, tonelessly.
Michael took her head in his hands and, leaning forward, gently kissed her forehead. Lehman found this display of affection sickening, considering what was to come. He left the boy to his charade and stepped over to the mahogany bureau. When he returned, he saw that the girl was now compliant with his every command, all in a matter of seconds. Whether hypnosis or witchcraft, the effect was unnerving, even after all these times.
“Sarah,” he cooed. The woman raised her head a looked at him with glassy eyes. “Do you love me Sarah?”
“Yes, Michael,” she replied.
“How much do you love me, Sarah?”
“I love you with all my heart, Michael.”
“How much do you love me, Sarah?” Michael persisted, a distinct edge to his voice.
“I love you more than life itself, Michael,” she replied.
Satisfied, the young man took the tools from Lehman's clammy hands and, placing the point of the metal stylus in the centre of Sarah's forehead, brought the hammer down with a single, decisive blow. A thin rivulet of blood trickled from the hole and Michael scooped it up on his forefinger, tracing a red oval around the wound.
“This is the all-seeing eye,” he explained. “You will watch over me Sarah. You will protect me from harm, because you love me.”
“I love you, Michael,” she said.
He took her head in his hands again, his thumbs covering her eyes. Lehman knew what would happen next and excused himself from the room. Every month he did this. Every month he brought someone who would not be missed to the house and every month, he buried them somewhere in the extensive grounds as they succumbed to shock or infection. The life of a whore didn't amount to much when he stood to make millions from the forthcoming deal, but that didn't mean he had to watch.
As far as Michael was concerned, she was an all-seeing guardian, perceiving the whole of creation thanks to his impromptu surgery.
It stood to reason that she would no longer need her eyes.
THE END
Thank you, Kevin, for your hard work and for allowing me to post your story up on my blog.
SENTINELS by KEVIN G. BUFTON
Copyright Kevin G. Bufton 2011
Lehman walked awkwardly down the corridor, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the ornate marble floor as he struggled to support the girl's weight. She had been gratifyingly mute since leaving the limousine – a potent cocktail of champagne and sedatives had seen to that – which was all to the good. After all, he had not purchased her for her conversation.
He stopped before the boy's private quarters and rapped sharply on the door with his free hand. He entered without waiting for an answer and was not surprised to find Michael sat up in bed, reams of computer printout spread before him. He did not look up from the work and Lehman was not entirely convinced that he had even noticed him coming in.
“Good morning, Michael,” Lehman said.
“Mr. Lehman,” the boy replied, his eyes not leaving the pages before him.
“How are you this morning?”
Michael ignored the question. “We should get out of United Steel,” he said. “Their stock will spike on Thursday morning, but it will crash by the time the market closes.”
Lehman did not bother asking him how he knew. “Then we should wait until it spikes?” he asked.
“No, before that,” Michael replied. “We need to sink that money into Denton Holdings before the drop.”
“Denton?”
“Of course,” Michael said. “Their value will skyrocket within hours of United going under. We stand to make a small fortune.”
Lehman nodded to himself and half-dragged the girl towards a low chair at the side of the bed. As he threw her roughly into it, Michael looked up from his paperwork, his eyes suddenly alight.
“You brought me one,” he said, breathlessly.
“First of the month, Michael,” Lehman said. “Have I ever let you down?”
“No,” the young man replied. “No, indeed not.” He moistened his dry lips with his tongue, swinging his legs out from the bed and dropping to his knees before the woman. He waved his hand in a serpentine motion before her face and smiled as her glazed eyes followed its every movement. He covered her eyes with his hand.
“Name,” he said.
“Sarah,” the woman replied, tonelessly.
Michael took her head in his hands and, leaning forward, gently kissed her forehead. Lehman found this display of affection sickening, considering what was to come. He left the boy to his charade and stepped over to the mahogany bureau. When he returned, he saw that the girl was now compliant with his every command, all in a matter of seconds. Whether hypnosis or witchcraft, the effect was unnerving, even after all these times.
“Sarah,” he cooed. The woman raised her head a looked at him with glassy eyes. “Do you love me Sarah?”
“Yes, Michael,” she replied.
“How much do you love me, Sarah?”
“I love you with all my heart, Michael.”
“How much do you love me, Sarah?” Michael persisted, a distinct edge to his voice.
“I love you more than life itself, Michael,” she replied.
Satisfied, the young man took the tools from Lehman's clammy hands and, placing the point of the metal stylus in the centre of Sarah's forehead, brought the hammer down with a single, decisive blow. A thin rivulet of blood trickled from the hole and Michael scooped it up on his forefinger, tracing a red oval around the wound.
“This is the all-seeing eye,” he explained. “You will watch over me Sarah. You will protect me from harm, because you love me.”
“I love you, Michael,” she said.
He took her head in his hands again, his thumbs covering her eyes. Lehman knew what would happen next and excused himself from the room. Every month he did this. Every month he brought someone who would not be missed to the house and every month, he buried them somewhere in the extensive grounds as they succumbed to shock or infection. The life of a whore didn't amount to much when he stood to make millions from the forthcoming deal, but that didn't mean he had to watch.
As far as Michael was concerned, she was an all-seeing guardian, perceiving the whole of creation thanks to his impromptu surgery.
It stood to reason that she would no longer need her eyes.
THE END
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Halloween Flash Fiction Contest!!
I don’t know if you know this about me, but I love horror. The scarier, the better. Freak me out, give me nightmares, and make me afraid to turn the light out at night, and you’ve won me over.
And, since it is almost the scariest time of year, I thought I’d host a scary little contest. Flash fiction-style. Time to channel your inner King, Lovecraft, Barker, Craven...whoever gets your juices flowing.
The rules are simple: You have until midnight on Halloween (OoooOoooO, spoooooooky!!) to post your scariest flash fiction (no more than 750 words) as a comment on this thread. The scariest stories win a free pendant! I’ll give away at least two pendants but perhaps more, if you’re all on your scariest writing behavior.
This can be about anything. Zombie teddy bears, angry robots (smiley face), cannibalistic Santa Claus, cybernetic ghost sharks in a blood ocean, alien Frankenstein-monsters…whatever. The sky’s not even the limit. It just has to be original and scary. Blood & gore are totally cool, but please limit the “adult situations” & language so I don’t have to put a warning label on my blog. :P
And this should go without saying but, NO sparkly/angsty vampires, please, or I’ll slap you on the hand and take away your Halloween candy.
As always, the pendant(s) can be of anything you like. I can also make it into a keychain, zipper pull, etc. for the menfolk out there who might not be especially interested in jewelry.
I specialize in writing gods (see the list HERE, and you can see examples HERE, at my Etsy shop). I have it on good authority that they bring good writerly luck. I also have a large template collection of liquor bottles and retro/rockabilly-style zombies, but I can make any image/pattern/photo, etc. into a pendant.
Good luck! I can’t wait to see what you guys come up with! :D
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Mary Sue's Magical Adventure
This is based on a 'what not to do' piece I wrote for the QueryTracker forum, just zjhoozjhed up a bit. And yes, I totally made that into a word. Zjhoozjh. It happened. Wrap your mind around that, and enjoy Mary Sue's adventure until your head explodes from all the exclamation points.
Dear Agents, Publishers, and Oprah…
Mary Sue is the most beautiful sixteen-year-old girl at her high school. She’s a genius with the voice of an angel who plays ten instruments and speaks seventeen languages! Puppies, kittens, bunnies, and baby birds all follow her around because they can sense how pure and wonderful she is! She sings in her church choir, works at a soup kitchen every Saturday, and babysits her four brothers and sisters while her single mother works three jobs after their abusive father went to prison! She is beloved by all…so why does everyone hate her so much!?
Ashley, the leader of the rich girls’ clique, bullies Mary Sue constantly because she’s soooo totally jealous! She dumps garbage and dog food into Mary Sue’s gorgeous golden hair, steals her scholarship to art school, and calls her names until everyone else hates Mary Sue for being so popular, too! Then Mary Sue’s lost evil twin Julie Sue, separated from her at birth, joins forces with Ashley, and now everyone thinks Mary Sue is a slut! But that's so not true, because she’s totally saving herself for marriage!
Then Ashley’s hunky football-star boyfriend Hunter, who is also a brooding thousand-year-old vampire who never feeds on human blood and is immune to sunlight, falls in love with Mary Sue! With the power of true love on her side, Mary Sue develops magical powers that she only uses for Good! Everyone finally realizes how wrong they were to hate Mary Sue, even Ashley. Then Hunter reveals he is the Prince of the fairies and marries Mary Sue, making her a real-life fairy princess! Also there’s angels and werewolves.
Mary Sue’s Magical Adventure is currently 347,821 words long, but I’m still working on it so it will change. It’s a YA fantasy/adventure/literary/paranormal/regency/mystery/historical fiction novel, and it reads like Harry Potter, the Clique, and Twilight combined, only better!
This book will sell BILLIONS of copies! I wanted you to get in on the ground floor because I saw on your website that you represent several New York Times bestselling authors, and I knew you wouldn’t want to pass this up! But don’t worry; if there are any mistakes, you can totally catch them in editing. I trust you.
I have at least five more books in mind, because I've had a LOT of bullies and they all need to learn to stop being mean to people. Especially me! So when do you want the manuscript? It's all in Old English Text font, because I want you to really feel how mature the book is. Even though it's still in its first draft, and I haven't actually finished it yet, you'll be so hooked to Mary Sue you'll want to sell it from chapter two.
Don’t wait too long, though! There are hundreds of agents out there who will snap this series up in a second, if you’re stupid enough to pass. I'll give you 6 hours to request to read the whole thing, and then you’re out of luck. This is a business, and I’m offering to hire you. Don’t screw this up for yourself, especially in this economy!
Ciao!
Dear Agents, Publishers, and Oprah…
Mary Sue is the most beautiful sixteen-year-old girl at her high school. She’s a genius with the voice of an angel who plays ten instruments and speaks seventeen languages! Puppies, kittens, bunnies, and baby birds all follow her around because they can sense how pure and wonderful she is! She sings in her church choir, works at a soup kitchen every Saturday, and babysits her four brothers and sisters while her single mother works three jobs after their abusive father went to prison! She is beloved by all…so why does everyone hate her so much!?
Ashley, the leader of the rich girls’ clique, bullies Mary Sue constantly because she’s soooo totally jealous! She dumps garbage and dog food into Mary Sue’s gorgeous golden hair, steals her scholarship to art school, and calls her names until everyone else hates Mary Sue for being so popular, too! Then Mary Sue’s lost evil twin Julie Sue, separated from her at birth, joins forces with Ashley, and now everyone thinks Mary Sue is a slut! But that's so not true, because she’s totally saving herself for marriage!
Then Ashley’s hunky football-star boyfriend Hunter, who is also a brooding thousand-year-old vampire who never feeds on human blood and is immune to sunlight, falls in love with Mary Sue! With the power of true love on her side, Mary Sue develops magical powers that she only uses for Good! Everyone finally realizes how wrong they were to hate Mary Sue, even Ashley. Then Hunter reveals he is the Prince of the fairies and marries Mary Sue, making her a real-life fairy princess! Also there’s angels and werewolves.
Mary Sue’s Magical Adventure is currently 347,821 words long, but I’m still working on it so it will change. It’s a YA fantasy/adventure/literary/paranormal/regency/mystery/historical fiction novel, and it reads like Harry Potter, the Clique, and Twilight combined, only better!
This book will sell BILLIONS of copies! I wanted you to get in on the ground floor because I saw on your website that you represent several New York Times bestselling authors, and I knew you wouldn’t want to pass this up! But don’t worry; if there are any mistakes, you can totally catch them in editing. I trust you.
I have at least five more books in mind, because I've had a LOT of bullies and they all need to learn to stop being mean to people. Especially me! So when do you want the manuscript? It's all in Old English Text font, because I want you to really feel how mature the book is. Even though it's still in its first draft, and I haven't actually finished it yet, you'll be so hooked to Mary Sue you'll want to sell it from chapter two.
Don’t wait too long, though! There are hundreds of agents out there who will snap this series up in a second, if you’re stupid enough to pass. I'll give you 6 hours to request to read the whole thing, and then you’re out of luck. This is a business, and I’m offering to hire you. Don’t screw this up for yourself, especially in this economy!
Ciao!
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Opening to Longboat
After sending this around to various magazines without success, I'm entering it into the L. Ron Hubbard's Writers of the Future Contest. Haven't done that in awhile. Not to toot my own horn, but I last entered in 2005 with a YA fantasy piece and it made it all the way to the semi-finals. Huzzah! This is a dark fantasy/horror piece entitled "Longboat." I'm just posting the opening few paragraphs (about 240 words) here for your amusement. :)
Two glittering specks hover over the bow of my longboat, like moonlight reflecting in dark glass. I tell myself they are dim stars, or the fizzling lamplight from the sinking brigantine some fifty yards ahead. I can almost believe it. Until they blink.
Those flecks are not stars. They are not candlelight reflected on the water. They are the wet and watchful eyes of whatever monster brought us to this lightless world. I am the only one left alive.
#
Yesterday morning—at least I think it was yesterday—I awoke heaving my guts into the ocean, watching slimy green threads connect my mouth to the water through watering eyes. The retching held me captive for several minutes, my gut clenched so tight I could not even draw breath. When my stomach finally released me, I collapsed against the hull and sucked in great lungfuls of the clean salt air. The cold Atlantic wind blew over my flushed cheeks and eyelids, relieving my nausea for a time but doing little to ease the terrific pounding in my head or remove the sour taste of vomit and absinthe from my tongue.
I didn’t have to open my eyes to know I was no longer aboard the Raven. I was in the longboat. Again. I had only the dimmest recollection of breaking into the liquor shipment with the third mate and punching the quartermaster in the mouth when he tried to take it from us. Damn.
Two glittering specks hover over the bow of my longboat, like moonlight reflecting in dark glass. I tell myself they are dim stars, or the fizzling lamplight from the sinking brigantine some fifty yards ahead. I can almost believe it. Until they blink.
Those flecks are not stars. They are not candlelight reflected on the water. They are the wet and watchful eyes of whatever monster brought us to this lightless world. I am the only one left alive.
#
Yesterday morning—at least I think it was yesterday—I awoke heaving my guts into the ocean, watching slimy green threads connect my mouth to the water through watering eyes. The retching held me captive for several minutes, my gut clenched so tight I could not even draw breath. When my stomach finally released me, I collapsed against the hull and sucked in great lungfuls of the clean salt air. The cold Atlantic wind blew over my flushed cheeks and eyelids, relieving my nausea for a time but doing little to ease the terrific pounding in my head or remove the sour taste of vomit and absinthe from my tongue.
I didn’t have to open my eyes to know I was no longer aboard the Raven. I was in the longboat. Again. I had only the dimmest recollection of breaking into the liquor shipment with the third mate and punching the quartermaster in the mouth when he tried to take it from us. Damn.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Motivational Speakers
This is a satirical piece I wrote back before I learned how to fake an injury to get out of those mind-numbing teambuilding seminars. Uuugh. Now I know better. Now I just think about actually sitting through it, and the nausea moves through me until I'm actually too sick to attend. Crisis averted! May you enjoy reading this as much as I hated attending it.
Motivational Speakers
Motivational Speakers
Hello, everyone. Welcome to your Company-sponsored lecture on leadership, productivity, and self-improvement. I know you're all being forced to attend this seminar, and most of you are rolling your eyes and glancing at your watches, just waiting for me to say we’re all going to have a super-fun time. Well, we’re probably not. I mean, this is the same brainwashing, behavior-modifying, pop-psychological, propaganda-based waste of time we’ve been regurgitating and feeding back to the public every three years since the Hitler’s Youth program.
That’s right; the only things we change are our catch phrases; like “See it and Be it,” “If you Believe it, You can Achieve it,” “Be Your Own Cheerleader,” and “Have You Hugged your Rainbow Today?” And yet, some of you here today will still walk away believing that today has forever changed your life for the better. So let’s get started!
Now, let me first tell you what we’re all about. We’ve been hired by your Company to steal away precious hours of your life under the pretense of elevating your self-esteem, managing your time more efficiently, and bettering your overall lives. In truth, however, it’s just much cheaper for your employers to make a meaningless gesture in the form of this tedious seminar to boost profits and productivity than to give you all raises or offer some sort of incentive program. As a bonus, we make your heartless, money-driven Corporate Machine look like they actually care about its fully-disposable employees.
The same goes for your schools, ladies and gentlemen. Yes, I can fully guarantee that if your children aren’t already enrolled a class that hammers these mind-controlling precepts into their fragile, impressionable young minds, they soon will be. There are classes out there in every elementary school, junior high school, high school, and college that are devoted exclusively to these time-wasting exercises, designed to shape the weak-minded, gullible masses into the performance-driven automatons every employer dreams of.
But we’re getting off topic. Let’s talk about time management. Now, when I say ‘time-management,’ am I referring to your recreation time, your time at home, away from the office? Of course not. How would that help your Company pay my ridiculously overpriced bill? No, I’m talking about better managing your time here, in the cubicle that will slowly but surely drain from you all life and vitality, leaving you a cold, hollow shell praying daily for a swift and painless death that will not come.
I know most of you are saying, “How? How can I better manage my time to benefit my Company?” Well, let’s just think about it for a moment; do you really need to take a lunch break? Couldn’t you better use that hour by eating at your desk and finishing that paperwork? Of course you could. Just don’t choke on that chicken bone. All the resulting paperwork would really slow down your HR department. And what’s that, folks? That’s right: It’s…bad for The Company!
Today I’ll teach you about the power to “Choose Your Own Attitude.” What a revolutionary concept, you’re thinking. And you’re right. You can decide how to feel today, and every day. Do you want to be happy? Then just be happy! It doesn’t matter that you rear-ended a police car while driving your underage daughter to the hospital after she miscarried her cousin’s unborn child. Suppress those unhappy, counter-productive emotions; block out those gloomy thoughts until they’re somewhere you’ll never find them until you suffer a psychotic break.
Just put on a happy face, and the rest will fall into place. Don’t bring your problems to work; nobody cares about them anyway, and it can only decrease your performance level and the effectiveness of your co-workers. Remember, The Company is everything, folks.
But what about problems at work, you say? Well, those are your problems, and they’re your fault. You shouldn’t selfishly lower your colleagues’ productivity by making a big scene when you’re passed over for that promotion in favor of the intern who gave in to your supervisor’s bizarre sexual advances. Don’t sue over unpaid overtime or complain about working weekends. Is that good for the Company? No. It doesn’t benefit anybody, and frankly, it can only make it that much harder for you to turn that frown upside down.
We all know that The Company is a fine-tuned Machine, and it can only work best and most effectively produce revenues if all the little people—I mean little pieces—are working together as one unified, non-individual-based unit. Only if you all work your tired fingers to the bone, ridding yourself of every drop of individuality and hope for a better future, can the Company maximize its output. That means higher profit margins and more money than a printing press.
But not for you, disposable employees. No, no; that’s what I’m here for. A meaningless gesture from your superiors to give you that false sense of loyalty and respect you so desperately thirst for, in order to keep you operating at the back-breaking pace they need to improve those bottom lines. Yes, folks; if you listen and apply everything you hear today to your lives as a whole, I guarantee your Company will hire us to do this at every office they own. Soon every employee will be volunteering to work weekends, giving up overtime pay, forfeiting vacations and time with friends and family, and feeling great about it!
Over the next four days, you’ll learn all about:
· How guilt at missing unreachable quotas can be offset by working off the clock
· Visualizing how the same repetitive, meaningless tasks performed over and over again will somehow make you president of The Company
· Visualizing how the same repetitive, meaningless tasks performed over and over again will somehow make you president of The Company
· The smug futility of mission statements
· How to forge a false sense of unity through Company-based sports teams, retreats, and other mindless ‘teambuilding’ exercises
· The degradation of the points-based ‘reward’ system
· How competing in non-monetary awards programs for attendance/safety certificates can make you feel ‘special’
· Better customer service though personal humiliation
And so much more!
Monday, March 7, 2011
Little Johnny's Christmas Revenge
For some reason, I woke up today with Elvis's "White Christmas" in my head, and I haven't quite been able to rid myself of it. So, in spirit with the seasonal tunes going 'round and 'round in my head, I thought I'd post a little piece of Christmas-related flash fiction I wrote. So enjoy "Little Johnny's Christmas Revenge."
Johnny ground his teeth as he clenched and unclenched his fist around the black lump he’d found in his stocking last Christmas. Coal. Again. After he’d tried so hard to be a good boy this year.
He flicked his gaze over to the pile of shattered Christmas memories lying on his nightstand. Five years = five lumps of coal. Never again. Johnny slammed the last piece down next to the others. He glared at them for a long time, his eyes dark slits in his face, until he remembered the gallon of gasoline under his bed. His face broke into a smile. No, he’d never get another lump of coal for Christmas again. Nobody would.
It was nearly midnight on Christmas Eve before Johnny felt certain that everyone else was asleep. He cracked open his bedroom door and peeked out into the hallway. His parents’ door was shut tight, as were his sisters,’ and all the lights were off except for the one in the bathroom down the hall, which was left on in case one of the children needed to use the toilet during the night.
Johnny slipped out of his room and locked every door in the house. He used a screwdriver to remove the handles and latches, so the fat man couldn't just walk out when he heard the smoke alarms. Then he snuck into the garage, the gasoline in his hand and a box of matches in his pocket. He took his father’s ladder and set it against the side of the house. His feet slipped a little on the rungs, but he managed to make his way onto the roof. There he sat, shivering in the chilly air of late December, waiting for Santa.
He didn’t have long to wait. The tell-tale sound of sleigh bells tinkled through the night air, and Johnny’s heart raced in his chest. His face tightened into a half-crazed grin, and he ducked behind the chimney.
Other children would have been fascinated at the sight of finally seeing Santa and all his reindeer on their rooftop, close enough to touch. But not Johnny. No, the humiliations and the disappointments of the last five Christmases were too much to bear. Every time his conscience pricked at him, he thought back to his sisters’ laughing at his tear-streaked face and coal-blackened fingers while they danced and played with shiny baubles and beautiful dolls. His parents would cluck their tongues and shake their heads, telling Johnny it was his own fault; he shouldn’t have put the cat in the freezer. He shouldn’t have put the hamster down the garbage disposal. He shouldn’t have held the dog underwater in the bathtub until he stopped moving.
Johnny ground his teeth again and willed the fat man in red to hurry up and go down the chimney. After a few minutes—an eternity to any eleven-year-old boy—Santa hefted the sack over his shoulders and vanished down the chimney.
Johnny tiptoed out from his hiding place and popped the cap on the gas can. The reindeer pawed nervously as the young boy approached them, but didn’t move out of the way. He hummed ‘Up on the Housetop’ as he sprinkled the smelly liquid all over the roof, the sleigh, even the reindeer. He’d brought a flagstone up onto the roof months ago, and now he slid that over the chimney top to keep the fat man from escaping his well-deserved punishment. But not before he took the five hateful lumps of coal from his other pocket and threw them down into the fireplace.
Then he lit a match.
He flicked his gaze over to the pile of shattered Christmas memories lying on his nightstand. Five years = five lumps of coal. Never again. Johnny slammed the last piece down next to the others. He glared at them for a long time, his eyes dark slits in his face, until he remembered the gallon of gasoline under his bed. His face broke into a smile. No, he’d never get another lump of coal for Christmas again. Nobody would.
It was nearly midnight on Christmas Eve before Johnny felt certain that everyone else was asleep. He cracked open his bedroom door and peeked out into the hallway. His parents’ door was shut tight, as were his sisters,’ and all the lights were off except for the one in the bathroom down the hall, which was left on in case one of the children needed to use the toilet during the night.
Johnny slipped out of his room and locked every door in the house. He used a screwdriver to remove the handles and latches, so the fat man couldn't just walk out when he heard the smoke alarms. Then he snuck into the garage, the gasoline in his hand and a box of matches in his pocket. He took his father’s ladder and set it against the side of the house. His feet slipped a little on the rungs, but he managed to make his way onto the roof. There he sat, shivering in the chilly air of late December, waiting for Santa.
He didn’t have long to wait. The tell-tale sound of sleigh bells tinkled through the night air, and Johnny’s heart raced in his chest. His face tightened into a half-crazed grin, and he ducked behind the chimney.
Other children would have been fascinated at the sight of finally seeing Santa and all his reindeer on their rooftop, close enough to touch. But not Johnny. No, the humiliations and the disappointments of the last five Christmases were too much to bear. Every time his conscience pricked at him, he thought back to his sisters’ laughing at his tear-streaked face and coal-blackened fingers while they danced and played with shiny baubles and beautiful dolls. His parents would cluck their tongues and shake their heads, telling Johnny it was his own fault; he shouldn’t have put the cat in the freezer. He shouldn’t have put the hamster down the garbage disposal. He shouldn’t have held the dog underwater in the bathtub until he stopped moving.
Johnny ground his teeth again and willed the fat man in red to hurry up and go down the chimney. After a few minutes—an eternity to any eleven-year-old boy—Santa hefted the sack over his shoulders and vanished down the chimney.
Johnny tiptoed out from his hiding place and popped the cap on the gas can. The reindeer pawed nervously as the young boy approached them, but didn’t move out of the way. He hummed ‘Up on the Housetop’ as he sprinkled the smelly liquid all over the roof, the sleigh, even the reindeer. He’d brought a flagstone up onto the roof months ago, and now he slid that over the chimney top to keep the fat man from escaping his well-deserved punishment. But not before he took the five hateful lumps of coal from his other pocket and threw them down into the fireplace.
Then he lit a match.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)