I won! I won! I won!

Third time lucky!

In my spare time…bawahahahahahaa.

Sorry. Sometimes I just crack me up. Spare time?  Being  a parent implies the disappearance of “spare time” just like those lovely, quiet, romantic dinners for two.

What I meant to say was in moments when I do find the time to do other things beyond working, sleeping, training, parenting, husbanding, gardening, watching movies, socializing, travelling, and most importantly, blogging, I experiment with a little flash fiction. Continue reading

A head story

Every once in a while I enter a weekly, one-word prompt competition hosted by Ad Hoc Fiction. You have to use their prompt word in a story of a 150 words.  Or less.  People who know me will understand how ridiculously difficult this is for me.  What can I say? I enjoy talking. A lot.

The site selects a few of the entries and post them for readers to vote for their favorite.  I haven’t won yet.  Besides, winning is not everything and it’s not the reason I enter.  (At least that is what I tell myself every week when they post the winning story.)  The last prompt was “press” and my story is actually in contention this week. I’m surprised too.  It’s one of many, so it’s not like I’m going to sell the rights to a film studio or anything.

But just imagine if there was enough people who liked it…


A head story

They found her in a small room filled with the stench of disinfectant and sex.

Her naked corpse provocatively draped over the bed in a pool of blood that leaked from the gaping hole in her throat. Her left hand was awkwardly placed between her wide spread legs.  A macabre portrait of lust.  A short dress, crop-top and GAP underwear were neatly folded on the floor.  She was still wearing stiletto’s.  She was missing a ring finger.

The head was placed on the make-shift dressing table cropped against the broken lampshade.  Glazed, brown eyes frozen in a final expression of terror, staring at the dead girl.  The ruffled grey hair was caked with blood and goo.

The cop shook his head.  The press was going to have a field day. And not just because of another dead prostitute but because the head didn’t belonged to her.

It belonged to the mayor.


Welcome to my dark side.

The Note

I recently started to jot down fictional short stories (max 150 words) based on one word prompts as provided by Ad Hoc Fiction.  The site claims that if you’re really good at creating stories, it may even result in you winning some cash. I haven’t won anything yet. That should probably tell me something but I’m too stupid/stubborn/old to let failure stop me now. I should also quantify the word “recently” in the context of my opening sentence…This was my first post, prompted by the word NOTE.


“You’re not Aunt Jenny”, I said to the sad, old man who was standing in the doorway. He didn’t have an umbrella and was soaked right through. The rain was hiding the tears running across his cheeks. I told him Mommy was taking a nap before her second shift starts.

“Aunt Jenny takes care of me when Mommy works”. 

He didn’t reply, just handed me a crumbled piece of paper that I had to give to Mommy.  I tried to read the note but could only make out “Sorry” and “Dad”.

I was happy to see a smile when I touched Mommy’s face to wake her. She doesn’t smile often anymore. She took the note, read it, jumped from the bed and ran into the street. I couldn’t keep up but found Mommy sobbing on her knees. Just like the time when Cathy threw the ball in my face.


Tell me what you think, don’t be shy but don’t be too harsh.  I’m fragile as a result of attempting to be a Dad of two teens.

Smoke much? No, he must be lying.

A disgusting little garden

Evil Mary’s disgusting little garden

Tim* was a smoker. Tim was unhappily married to the first woman who agreed to have sex with him, mainly because she fell pregnant.  Tim was not a very lucky man, most probably because he accidently kicked that midget during soccer practise.  In his defence, the little man was lying on the field at the time.  It wasn’t Suzie’s* first horizontal Tango but she felt sorry for the 22 year old virgin, was drunk at the time and needed a place to stay.  Even though Suzie gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, she manage to retain every single pound of fat she had before she fell pregnant.  Now she only had an excuse to look like someone who ate a small country. Continue reading

The Door the the Loo #3

The character of Fat Bastard as seen in the Austin Power movies was based on James Brockwell.  A vile, obese, disgusting excuse of a human who managed the Admin division.  Very few people have met another person with so little disregard for others.  Compassion, decency, discretion and good old-fashioned tact was just some of the things he never bothered acquiring.  He was the biggest, fattest bastard ever to walk the face of the planet.Newcastle-20131001-00083

But with all the slurring and vulgarity he spewed around the office, nothing could compare to the ill-treatment of Mrs Chetty, his small, sweet, soft-spoken Indian secretary.  Everybody felt sorry for her, knew she was trapped in employment hell.  Mrs Chetty seemed to have moved beyond tears and emotion, for he only exploits that as a weakness.  She no longer felt self-pity, resentment or even depression for she understood that life is not always fair.  But the abuse she endured culminated all her feelings into one word:  HATE.

It drove this grandmother of three to the edge of the earth.  It forced her to spend hours in front of the stove, perfecting her notorious curry, adding weird and wonderful ingredients daily.  Many cats and dogs died, but it had to be perfect.  And then after three weeks, it was and she took one plate to work.  As a gift.

James Brockwell didn’t even bother thanking her when he hungrily grabbed the plate and slobbered over the dish.  He shoved spoonfuls into his mouth, commenting loudly, causing spit, meat and sauce to fly through the air.  She left him in his office, knowing very well it would take a while for the ingredients to settle and work their magic.  And she clearly heard when it did.

To call it flatulence would be the understatement of the century because from behind the glass of his cubicle came a sound no one has ever heard before.  It was a thunderous bang that kept going with a changing frequency that bellowed out for at least 14 seconds.  Then James stormed out of the office, like no Wildebeest stampede ever did,  going as fast as his ginormous frame could carry him.

Some people still speculate whether he made it to the loo.  But he most probably did, for it wasn’t his excessive bowl movement that killed him, it was the cigarette he lit when he finished, with total disregard for the no-smoking sign.  The ensuing impact destroyed four toilets and humps of his ass was plastered to the walls.

Mrs Chetty giggled every time she walked past the door to the loo which was isolated for the next four weeks due to maintenance and repair.  It intrigued her how no-one felt sorry for the man, how everyone just moved on afterwards, like nothing happened.  It was amusing how no-one made the connection.  Maybe it’s because that slut Jenna Smith only ate the curry and died at home, she didn’t explode.

“All’s well that ends well”, she thought as she showed Eric Lautner his new office, her third boss in four years.

The Door to the Loo #2

Some might call it a fetish.  Some might call it an obsession.  For Mr Jennings it was neither.  It was a reality, something that was as normal to him as not stepping on any of the cracks on the pavement walking to work, or knocking three times on any door before entering, or only wearing blue ties.Newcastle-20131001-00083

There was nothing special about the place, nothing made it more convenient or prettier or more comfortable in any way.  It was just as it was.  He did his business everyday @ 09h00 in the restroom at work, more specifically the one on the third floor facing south.  Nothing more, nothing less.

Being a controlling accountant for a large corporate firm suited him perfectly.  With a controlled regime of fibre intake he managed the five days a week, then skipping the weekend, very effectively.   In his 17 years as a bachelor working for the firm he’s never taken  leave.  Never needed it.  He was able to control the pressure of work.  He did get away with a weekend here and there, and even stretched his ability to not “do it” for four days.  In hindsight without proper planning it became rather unpleasant in the last hours of day four, resulting in his ass exploding @ 08h48 on the day he returned to work.  He required counselling for slipping with the time.

We all know life’s a bitch, and then he met one.  A condescending female version of himself, two peas in a pod, two sicko’s in an asylum, two people who liked one another irrespective of extremely odd behaviour.  She despised green food, and couldn’t touch the colour red, she said.  So they courted,  then married.  Too soon, me thinks.

For their honeymoon Mr Jennings knew he would be away for 7 days.  He studied diets and became comfortable with the plans he made, to keep his regularity in check.  The week was torturous for him, faking appreciation for normal situations of romance and site seeing.  It took a turn for the worst when Mrs Jennings was caught fucking the twenty something, extremely buff lifeguard with the RED TRUNKS, behind Villa #6, which was a number he always hated.

He didn’t get excited, didn’t scream or shout or cursed.  He controlled his emotions, accepted it for what it was and went home. It was actually a good thing as it was 2 days sooner than planned.  He also accepted the fact that the plans he made to control his bowl was failing miserably, again.  He needed the loo.

“Life must have hated Mr Jennings”, said one of his co-workers as the two orderlies in crisp white coats, carried him away in the body bag the following day.

No-one bothered telling him that there was a revamp in progress to the south-facing bathroom on the third floor of his office building.  After battling profusely with the locked door without success, he just keeled over and died.  Impressively, even in death he never lost control of his bowls.

But remember, trying to control too much shit, will just kill you eventually.

The Door to the Loo #1

Jimmy loves public restrooms.  He doesn’t like sharing them, but he likes the privacy it gives him.  He would prefer if no-one walks in when he’s busy, because they normally just freak out and then he has to “clean” up the mess.  And sometimes he’s just had enough.Newcastle-20131001-00083

Most people use restrooms quickly, they come in, do what they need to and leave.  Not Jimmy.  He takes his time, not that it’s something he can control really.  A good digestive process implies small bites of food and thorough chewing. With Jimmy this process implies an hour per thing, sometimes a little more, depending on the size.

Removing his skin takes forever as he needs to ensure it doesn’t tear.  Replacing them skins are frigging expensive and hard to come by.  No-one here looks the same.  Then he has to remove his eyes and dislocate the upper part of his face.  He then proceeds in releasing his sensory organs tucked in tightly on the side of his faux-neck.  That leaves him with a gaping hole and several rows of spiralling little blue teeth that disappears at the bottom of his real green throat.  It’s nice and big for comfortable feeding.

Food is in abundance here, which is why it remains a favourite holiday destination for his kind.  The travel guide is clear on sticking to the more inconspicuous sources like prostitutes and the homeless, which is why they prefer public restrooms.  And then discovering that a little bit of danger tape and a “Do not use” sign keeps most of these things from entering, just makes perfect better.

But there was that one time when four of the little things snucked in while he was enjoying the one-legged homeless thing.  He didn’t have a choice; and they were scrumptious.  He didn’t need to feed for a week after that, but couldn’t forget that magnificent taste, which lingered for hours after he spit out the shoes of little thing number 4.  And that’s when the craving started.  He just couldn’t help himself.  In the last few weeks he has grown extremely cautious; for the inhabitants of this blue planet becomes quite obsessive when those little things disappear.

“They should just lay more eggs”, he thought, picking up the terrified looking girl scout thing.