50 Word Stories.

Brevity is the soul of wit, so said the asthmatic public speaker.

London 2012

Looking at Heather now, it's hard to believe that this girl was not born to hurl cats. Having first flung at the tender age of 14, she's now been recruited to the Olympic Animal Flinging team, featherweight class. This year, she's going for gold, her parents must be so proud.


...Or are you just happy to see me?

"Hi dear." said Benedict as he slithered through the doorway.

"Hi honey!" beamed his wife. "How was your day?"

Benedict 'erred' and 'ummed' before settling on a shrug.

"Did you take out that life insurance policy?" he ventured.

He saw her nod, and continued: "Great. Thanks."

Then he shot her.


Usual, please.

Derek entered the salon in his usual manner, which is to say he walked through the door. He asked for 'the usual' and sat down in his usual chair. His appointment finished. He left, and the hairdresser felt guilty. 3 years later, and she still hadn't told Derek he was bald.


You keep using that word.

"Mmm, yeah. Like that, don't ya? You know you do, you filthy little tart. What are you? That's right, a feeble little slip of a girl. Oh, god, fry my omelette!"

Sue paused. Her husband looked uncomfortable, but she was sure she'd mastered this 'dirty talk' thing...

How to be a Riter!

It's said that everyone has a novel in them. Some people can be said to have three or four in them, but it's probably just a gland problem.

But you're not everyone, are you? You're special, because you, my friend, are a WRITER! So adept at wordplay and the art of text-massaging that you can make a living off of your scribblings.

But it won't be easy, by any means. The awful truth is, no matter how good of a writer you are (for all I know, you could write prose so beautiful that reading a single sentence of it will make me shit my soul out through my eyes), some types of literature sell better than others. Sure, you could spend another year on your 200-page character study in which the protagonist spends 3 weeks locked in a cupboard singing to his thumb, or you could churn out a quick moneymaker.

A chillingly-penned expose of corporate corruption of the textile industry may seem to you to be an example of a throbbing, vital issue at the heart of modern society, but it probably won't sell as well as a book aimed at teenage girl in which the protagonist falls in love with her clammy stalker.

So, what do you do? The answer would seem to be to write something that'll sell, so you can afford to do your more serious work.

Right then, a romance, a thriller, or a self-help book?

Well, self-help's obviously out, look at the state of your shoes! You can't have yourself together. The public won't accept anyone giving them advice unless you're a charming, witty, in-shape, effortlessly beautiful millionaire who's dating a string of underwear models.

Romance? You? Um...I don't think so.

That's decided, then! You'll write a thriller! They're easy. All you need to do is create a few characters, have something at stake, and the rest writes itself.

Okay, protagonist, obviously a man.

What?

No, if the main character in your thriller is a woman, men won't buy it, unless you're willing to write the first 5 chapters as an extended shower scene. And that would get boring after a while; there are only so many ways you can use the word 'soapy' before you get gratuitous...which might actually be the idea.

Okay, male, ex-marine. that shows that a) He's a renegade who doesn't play by the rules. And b) He can handle himself in a fight, which allows for a lot of loud gun battles, a barechested bar-room brawl, and maybe an exciting pointy swordfight. And his name is...manly...um...Jack.

Jack Mann. Great, now, a love intrest. This is easier, tall, blonde, possibly french, with a love of dangerous situations and even more dangerous men. Name...something feminine...a bird?

Adele Thrush.

Great, now we need a threat, and a villain. The villain can be anyone, so long as they're ethnic, but you know, bad ethnic. All screaming and beheading and sipping weird alcohols. They should also havesome kind of deformity, like a scar, or a constantly bleeding nose. Scars are best if they have meaning, so how about your villain has the word 'Habdabs' carved into his forehead, and at the end we find out is was the name of his beloved childhood spider monkey! That's character development.

For any good thriller, the stakes have to be high, and meaningful to the hero.

The villain, Aluc Al-Fleschwound, kidnaps Jack Mann's favourite stylist (you know, the one who cuts his hair just the way he likes it) and holds him ransom for all the bees he can eat. Only by teaming up with sultry foreign agent/jewel thief Adele Thrush, can Jack hope to save him!

Follow that formula, and before you know it you'll be rolling in cash, fame, and women. Or men. Or echidnas. Look, I don't know how you spend your weekend, okay?

See you in the bestseller list.

The first day of the rest of your liff.

Once again, I would like to invite you into the thick syrupy waters of language, where great, piscene iambic creatures swim, astounding alliterative anemones grow, and tortured old metaphors come to die. Last time, I appealed for help in inventing new words and phrases to help people express themselves in these difficult times. And the turnout was astounding, in that someone actually bothered. Nevertheless, I would like to present the newest five additions to the english language:

-Shitified adj. (Shih-tiff-eye-ed)
An object, person, or situation that has taken on negative qualities.

-Nevamoré abst. noun (Nehv-ah-morr)
(French) A word used to describe a love that is now unnatainable.
(Medical) A psychosis involving a profound dislike of birds.

-Vacuummulate verb. (Vahk-youm-you-late)
(1) To gather debris or a number of small items through suction.
(2) To overeat speedily, often using a straw or funnel.

-Testradool Proper noun. (Teest-rah-doohl)
A long-forgotten form of Russian martial arts that involves binding the fighter's forearms into gauntlets of fresh bear meat and delivering sweeping strikes to the opponent's groin and pelvis.

-Electrickery noun (Ee-leck-trick-urgh-ee)
The use of electric current to aid practical jokes, such as the old 'hand buzzer' gag, or dropping a toaster into a spouse's bath.

Aren't they exciting and relevant?

If you'd like to help, please comment, tweet, or write in, or better yet leave the house, meet a nice boy or girl, get married, have between 2 and 4 children and do something with your life!

Or you could sit in a windowless room and make up words...like me.

Secret Admirer.

I never thought I'd find the right girl for me, but I have!

She just doesn't know it yet.

What I mean is, I haven't spoken to her (yet!) but I'm sure she's seen me. She must have, I'm outside her house every day.

She looks down from the roof, there's a crowd of us, but I know she's looking at me. There's always a load of people milling around, and they all look up at her, arms outstretched. All day. But they haven't got a chance, my girl only has eyes for me.

***

She really does look amazing up there. Her home used to be a supermarket, but now it's all fortified. The windows have been boarded up, and dead refrigerators block the doors. I haven't been inside, but no-one else has, either. That's not for want of trying, though. The crowd that always seems to be hanging about here bangs on the windows and tries to claw their way through the barricades. Occasionally I'll join them, but I don't want her to see me do it. It's very rude of me, but there's no other way for me to see her. At least my motivations are pure; I just want to talk to her. The rest of them probably want to sell her something...but they seem very poorly dressed for salesmen.

***

I'm getting a little depressed over how little success I'm having. It's like she doesn't notice me amoungst the others. I thought about placing a lonely hearts ad...something along the lines of:

"You were the dark haired girl in the park. I was the guy standing under the tree. Our eyes met. I think we had a moment...then I was jumped by these grungy looking guys with blood all over them."

Nah, stupid. She'll remember all that.

Besides, now I think of it...the newspapers don't seem to get printed anymore.

***

I think she's lost weight. She looked a little unsteady on her feet today, though. The rifle seemed heavier in her hands than it has before. Maybe she needs some TLC. Whatvever it is, I hope it's not catching, I already feel weird. And everyone else here looks kind of sick, too. They're dirty, too, I can't get over how dreadful everyone looks. This used to be a nice nieghbourhood. I still think she looks fantastic, though.

***

Okay, I think I can see her soon, but if I'm going to get anywhere, I need a gift. She looks really hungry nowadays. She's been in there for about 3 months, so she'll probably be grateful for some food. Too bad there's not much about now but offal and bits of meat lying around...hmm, that one over there looks kind of fresh...wonder if she's a leg or a breast person...

***

Okay, I managed to pull some boards off of a backdoor and I'm going in to surprise her with my gift. I wrapped the pieces up in some newspaper, but they're still dripping slightly...just means they're fresh, that's what I'll tell her. It's really dark inside, but I think I see the stairs to the roof. In the dim light I can still make out the headline on the package.

"Thousands dead as biohazard warning declared."

Bit grim. That's why I don't read the papers. There's another bit about eating each other, but this is from months ago, it'll all be sorted out now. Right, a few more steps and I'm on the roof...I can see her! I want to shout, but my mouth's all dry, she can probably hear me coming anyway. She can see me! She looks so nervous, poor thing...excited to see me, I'll bet. Oh, she's raising her gun...probably just taking it off...

Wonder if she'll want a kiss?

Dead Meat.

Midnight. Or, at least as close to midnight as it could be without actually being midnight.

So, like, 11:59.
...
Midnight.
Christmas Eve.

The inky blackness of festive the street was pierced by lights, casting red and green glares across the sidewalk. A recent storm left snow sprawled across the streets, like a drunk department store Santa who found a whole bottle of whisky in his stocking. The night was as cold as a Reverend's teat, but the promise of things to come warmed me and gave me the strength to push onwards. I'd been invited to a little get-together hosted by some old friends from the business. Fingers McGraw and Legs McGinty had run two rival pizza houses for years, maintaining a healthy competition mainly because they were both stubborn old men. Proud, honourable and saltier than 16-century horse meat...which was kept in barrels of salt on long sea voyages.

I approached the condominium they shared, it's monogrammed mailbox loudly trumpeted their presence to the neighborhood, like a tuba salesman would his wares. But then the proprietor of 'McGraw's Greasy Grubhole' had never been one for subtelty. As I walked towards the house I noticed the door was ajar. Instantly I was wary, my years as a delivery boy had taught me always to be wary of open doors. They signified bill-dodgers...or worse, dog people!

I gingerly nudged the door and it creaked open, revealing a yawning black maw like that left in the heart of a widow. My heart thudded against the pocket book of Sylvia Plath quotes in my coat pocket. A light in the dining room was a beacon to me at the end of the dark hallway inside. The cold, soft light banished the darkness weakly, like a depressed lighthouse. I wanted to call their names, but a kind of cold dread prevented me. I crept to the doorway, and was surprised by a fallen Christmas tree that lay on the floor. Pirouetting through the air like a trench coat-clad ballet dancer, I found myself prone at the foot of a table.

I could see rows of feet under the table, like...rows of feet...no time to check the book, I lept to my feet.

"Legs! Why'd you leave that thing lyin' around?"
No answer.

At first, I thought he was just being strong and silent, like an elm, but then I saw the reason for his silence. All the bodies at the table lay slumped into their food.

They were dead.

Dead as the turkey they had been eating.

I had barely begun to grieve when light erupted from the windows, illuminating the grisly (yet still oddly festive) scene. Arcs of that familiar red and blue light intermittently played across the dead men's features, like a schizoid rainbow. A louderspeaker spoke (it's kinda their thing):

"Johnny Thrimbletrimmer, employee of the Triple-Stack 3-for-1! This is the police. We have the building surrounded, come out with your hands up. You have one minute."

I'd been framed! The circumstantial evidence was too damning, and there's no way I'd survive prison with my firm, willowy, and pale frame. I had to escape. I couldn't fight; all I had on me was a pizza cutter and I had no intention of using that on the police.

In the end I chose the stealthy approach, and slipped out the back door, like an improperly inserted suppository. After I was a few blocks away from the police squad, I allowed myself to breathe easy and tried to compose my thoughts, which was like trying to play a symphony with a monkey orchestra. I swatted a mental gibbon away from an abstract bassoon, and began to think.

Why would this have happened? That question seemed obvious. Someone was out to get me, and those poor bastards had just gotten in the way. But who? Could be a rival firm, but the Chief and I had always competed peacefully with the other firms.

Saucy...?

No. Not after Paris. She would never do that to me.

I needed help, and I needed it fast. The Chief was too far, and I couldn't go back to the Triple Stack, or she'd be in danger. The only man who could help me now was Deep Crust.

---

The Deep Dish Pizza Place was a maginificent establishment, but it looked very different at night. The oppressive dark of the city drained the colour out it's red walls, leaving it looking like an arthouse photograph of a shrunken tomatoe...y'know, the square ones. I saw them on the internet once. It didn't look occupied, except for one solitary light in the top window.

The door was open, as if Deep Crust was expecting me. DP had always boasted of his powers of premonition, which he attributed to his Romany heritage. It was also what he attributed his string of failed marriages and bitter alcoholism to, but best not to mention that right now.

I Brianed open the back door (Jimmy was vacationing with the Chief), and crept inside like a cat made of shadows. The red light was reflected inside giving the dining area an eerie crimson hue, like a haemophiliac had held a sharp objects party in there. My old friend's living quarters were on the second floor; he had always liked to gaze out of the window at the people strolling by, like he was remembering a more simple time in his life. He also enjoyed dumping his rotten condiments onto customers who tried to leave without tipping. It was how he'd earned his nickname, 'The Sweet Chilli Avenger'. I ascended the stairs like a midnight...uh...um...ferret.

I found Deep Crust in his room, hunched over a desk and surrounded by mountains of frozen pizzas. He seemed not to notice me, and to the untrained eye would seem to have not reacted. However, to me his alertness and tension was obvious, like a fireman living in a house made of wicker and candles.

"DP." I croaked, like a film noir bullfrog, "I need your help."

He shifted almost imperceptibly in his chair, focused on his work but listening.

"I'm in deep, Deep. Someone's trying to pin a lot of bodies on me, and I'm no-one's noticeboard! You're the only one I can turn to for help. Donald, man, I need you."

Deep Crust ceased his fevered scribbling and turned to look at me. His gaze was loaded, like a transvestite alchoholic at a ladies night. But his gaze was loaded with meaning rather than tequila and rohypnol.

"Johnny" he said, "I don't know what you've gotten yourself into, but you're still my friend. Of course I'll help you. I owe you that much."

For the first time in hours, I felt at ease, whereas before I'd felt like a balloon man talking a stroll down the pointiest street in town. However, a flicker in DP's face told me that he wasn't finished.

"Just...give me a hand with something first." he continued.

For the first time I really began to notice the room I was in. The boxes that towered high above our heads like grease-stained cardboard collusi didn't bear the familiar Deep Dish logo. Instead, indecipherable foreign glyphs decorated the boxes.

"DP...where did these come from?" I asked, voice full to the brim with apprehension like an anxious beer.

"I got a bunch of pizzas cheap from this Russian pastry baron. They weren't exactly his to sell, so I really need to get them out of here - fast."

I was speechless, all I could do was put one foot in front of the other, as an especially jagged terrier caught the hem of my rubber coat, and burst my metaphorical bubble. I took a step back, and a baton collided with the back of my head. My face hit the floorboards; I tasted blood...and pine. I heard Deep crust get tackled by two police officers, then it all went dark.

---

The next morning brought revelation after revelation, like a preacher with a bad case of deja vu. I had inadvertantly lead the police right to the Deep Dish. It looked like Deep crust would be spending Christmas behind bars. No matter, I'd make it up to him by delivering a very special pie, with a key hidden under the pepperoni.

I could right that wrong, but there are some things you just can't fix. The mortician managed to uncover the cause of death for Legs, Fingers and the others.

Undercooked turkey.

Simple food poisoning had managed to kill so many. Pulling my coat tight around me, I retreated inside myself from the cold and the horrors of the world. They were lowlife pizza men, and would be missed by none, and mourned by fewer. Except for me. I couldn't dwell on it, it was just the way this open wound of a city worked.

They were human flotsam, and a great tide had come to wash them out to sea.

...

Hey, that one was kinda good.