Entered this for a flash fiction contest…

Where you had to write a story that involved a museum and lemonade. I did not win…oh well!


“Hide, sweetie!” Janine whispered to her son, Billy. Billy hid behind the pink lemonade stand, pleading eyes staring at his mother. “Shh…”

“And what is this?” the apparent leader of the fascists said. “Pink lemonade? And over here? Hard lemonade? This is not lemonade!” He fired off a few rounds from his weapon, emphasizing his point.

“Please,” the tour guide, who had a gun to his head, said. “Please, it’s just a museum. There are kids here.”

“Ah, children whom you are corrupting! There is only one type of lemonade, and that is FRESH SQUEEZED IN WATER WITH PERHAPS A LITTLE SUGAR!” The leader shook his head, as if sad that he had to explain these facts. “Kill him.”

His men obeyed, firing one round into the tour guide’s temple. He fell like a sack of lemons.

“The very idea that you have a museum dedicated to all different kinds of lemonade is ludicrous. It has gone too far! All must die.”

His men killed another of the hostages. Only Billy remained hidden from the fascists. He saw nothing but heard the screams.

More shots went off, and it sounded to Billy like some people were fighting back. An opportunity opened. Billy ran toward the fire escape and rushed outside, his eyes hurting from the sudden brightness. A woman with a badge rushed to him, picked him up, carried him to an armored truck.

“How many are there, son?” an ugly, gruff man asked Billy. “What’s going on in there?”

“There’s three…I think,” Billy said. “They’re fighting. I’m scared! My mom!”

The gruff man turned and nodded to some others. “Send them in,” he said. Then, to Billy, “You did good, son. Better than most people could.”

Yelp Review of that Bar I Went into the Other Night

The atmosphere is astounding, if you’re into that smoky, dusted sunlight creeping in through the windows vibe. Which I totally am. That’s probably the best part of the place, and I know many reviewers like to start with the bad…but that’s not me. A fight broke out which, thankfully, I wasn’t involved in, but I have to put that down as a mark against the owner. All they did was start a betting pool to see who’d win.

Service was quick, if a bit gruff. The glass of tequila slid across the bar like a rocket and hurt my hand when I blocked it, spilling half the drink and getting a couple laughs. I didn’t think people like that could laugh…sharp teeth and lots of hair. Tough guys, you know the type.

The drink was one of the best tequilas I’ve ever had, going down my throat like fire. I almost felt like roaring! A truly wild experience. One thing I do have to mention is the hair I found in the alcohol, but I mean, it’s alcohol in a grungy bar, so…I did look at the bottom of the glass, too, and saw the inside was stained red, as though red wine had been left in it for far too long.

I don’t know if it’s a nightly occurrence (it was a full moon that night), but things tend to get pretty rowdy once the sun sets. They have this drink called “the Sacrifice” which is this thick, red, syrupy thing. The adventurous side of me wanted to take a sip, and once I started, I couldn’t stop. It had a kind of metallic taste to it. When I asked my neighbor at the bar what it was, he just smiled and shook his head. At least, I think he smiled; I don’t think I’ve seen anyone with a thicker beard than that guy.

Things started to get a little fuzzier with each glass of the Sacrifice I drank. The music was somehow dulled, as though I was underwater. My hands became numb, but I have the distinct impression of clawing on something….soft.

I woke up the next morning in the back, and I think it’s really nice of them to let their patrons sleep there. Now…if only they’d let me leave. Four out of five stars.

You’ll Be There, Won’t You?

How many times did A-Bar jump over the ramp? Twenty, at least, with his smooth black hair slicking back over his shoulders, revealing the hicky that Samantha gave him earlier that day. His leather jacket flapped with the wind, and his jeans rippled like the deep sea’s waves. If you got close enough, maybe, just maybe some of his coolness would spread onto you.

A-Bar’s aura cast a net that spread all over Rockville. People from miles away, who had no interest in the sport, didn’t watch it on TV, nor even read people talking about it on the internet, would come and watch his backflips and his barrel rolls with gasps of oooo and ahhhh.

You’ll be there, won’t you? Sneak a beer from your parents’ fridge and have a day out on the town, watching the skaters lick and kick around the benches and parking garages of your hometown.


Love, Sex, Dreams, and a quick note

Love is the plant that weeps in the corner of an office that’s crowded with cubes.
Sex is the pot of money labeled “nature fund” on the desk of the secretary.
Dreams are the emptiness that fills that pot, and hope is the loose change in the worker’s pocket.

Just a quick note — Does it mean it’s shit when I pull it out of my ass? Even if I don’t have to wipe?

Jenkins! Get in Here!

Jenkins sat in his cube, staring at the clock staring into his eyes, wondering what happened with the time once it was spent up and used. It was probably thrown out for another universe or version of him to do with it what all entities will do: Waste it.

“Jenkins!” his boss shouted. Jenkins couldn’t see his boss with his eye, but saw him with his mind, with his read face and sweaty forehead. “Is that report ready, yet?!”

“No,” Jenkins replied, staring at the clock and twiddling a pen between his fingers. “I, uh, still have a couple changes to make.”

“What?! What fucking changes?!” His boss pounded on the cube wall, but still failed to present himself visually. “My ass is on the line here! That means….that YOUR ass is…” Time passed, and his boss seemed to become unsure of himself. The normally booming voice now sputtered and hesitated. “…on the line, too. Okay? Got that?”

“Okay, but. I think, like, we could work together. On like, the report? Maybe.”

“May…maybe! May is…that’s, uh, that’s okay. Yeah, okay.”


Filmore Johnson at the Microwave Championships of Golden Fun Time

Filmore Johnson entered the arena to the sound of fans crushing the stadium floor. His arms were raised high, his eyes were dead set on his opponent, and his plate of leftovers rested on his strapped-on tray. Today was finally the day that he would prove himself in the Microwave Championships of Golden Fun Time.

“Johnson, place your tray!” the ref shouted at the top of his lungs. Still, his voice was barely audible above the screams of the crowds. “Set! GO!!!”

Filmore barely took time to look at his own work. His eyes darted left, now right, now up and down, and his hands became wild things that moved of their own accord. Soon his plate was ready. He set the microwave for one minute and thirty two seconds. Precision was as much of an art as the actual arrangement.

The crowd was ecstatic.

“Peas ON TOP of the mashed potatoes,” the announcer blurted into his mic. “We haven’t seen that kind of action since the days of Judy Moore! Look at the daring manner in which he sliced the Salisbury steak! The amazing, even astonishing decision not to use ALL of the shredded cheese! Let’s hope that’s intentional, folks!”

The microwave, after aeons collapsed into each other forming new universes as the clock forms seconds, finally beeped. Filmore brought his tray to the judges. One of them passed out after the first bite. The second went into a strange, ecstatic daze. The third flatlined as the tendrils of deliciousness reached down his esophagus and into his stomach.


Filmore bowed out with respect, as the paramedics rushed to the stage.