another old 20-minute story

Going through my old stuff. Thought this 20-minute story had some sort of economy theme, which is in the air right now. So here we go:

Market

"You handle what?"

"Intestines."

"Intestines?"

"Yeah. I buy, and sell, you know. It's a crazy market."

"Market for intestines?"

"Uh, yeah."

"What the hell do you mean the market for intestines is crazy?! You're crazy! Get the hell out of my store!"

"Look -- wow. I don't know what to say."

"Excuse me?"

"I've never got this reaction. You seem a little... freaked out... by my line of work."

"I guess I just never had anyone come in here looking to score some free intestines."

"Well, do you have any?"

"No, why would I ha-- well, I have intestines, but not -- no. No, no, no. I don't have any for you."

"Aw, come on..."

"Do you just go into any old place and ask if they have any spare intestines in the back room, huh? You think this is like getting old boxes when you're moving? What reaction do you usually get?

"Well... This seemed like a reasonable place to start."

"Start?!"

"Gotta start somewhere."

"I need you to leave the store, now."

"Can I perhaps offer to sell you some intestines?"

"Get those off the counter!!"

"Now, as you can see, sir, I can divide the intestines however you like..."

"Oh my -- (gags) -- what the -- (heaves) --"

"... sheep, cow, moose. These here are some of my higher end items, I now you are a client of tastes, sir: polar bear right here, and walrus..."

"(vomits, severely)"

"Oh. Oh... Sir... I'm going to have to insist that you pay for the products you... soiled."

"..."

"I take it from the look in your eyes that I'll just have to... get back to you about the bill. I'll... mail you. And remember: when you think of intestines, think of--"

"I'll. Kill. You."

"Forget my business card, then. Good day."

breaking bottles on the hull of the blog: fiction-style

This is from a while ago, when I did a bunch of 20-minute stories with some friends. I don't know what I'll be doing in this blog yet, so maybe I'll post more of these, or something else will happen. The Shadow knows.

"The Longest Road"

The longest road connects the two furthest apart places: true or false?

False. The longest road connects the two closest places: birth and death.

But every road needs a little… upkeep.

Henry Maid Winshor, son of Henrysfather Winshor, was a construction worker, and his wife was a thousand shining little dots on a large square of black velvet. Henry kept his wife hanging in the living room, except some evenings when they would roll together in the bedroom, although nights like that were more common many years ago.

Did I mention Henry worked on the roads of time?

That kind of thing always slips by me.

Ho, ha.

So, at work one day, Henry accidentally misaligned a steel girder and a forty six year old man suffered a fatal heart attack. Another time, he was responsible for a busload of children… well, let’s not say what happened to them.

Returning from work one afternoon, he found his wife rolled up with the milkman. 

Yes, the milk of time. No, it’s not different from normal milk.

“I want a divorce,” Henry said through his mustache.

His wife replied in silence. Velvety silence.

“For the love of god, Maurine, you’re not eighteen anymore.” Henry stayed at his brother’s condo for several weeks, drinking himself into the couch. His brother was a turtledove. 

A turtledove, in this story, is a monstrous fusion of a turtle and a dove…

And an octopus.

“Blarg!” said Henry’s brother, waving his slick tentacle arms. “Bleffrgh!”

“I don’t need to stay here, Francis, you can’t tell me what to do.”

“Blllllllrrrrgggggggrrrrrr”

“You know what?” Henry rose drunkenly from the couch and picked up Francis’ television set. Francis had bought the television set as a wedding gift for Henry, but had never given it to him. 

Henry didn’t know that as he chucked it out the window.

Francis was stunned. His giant dove head retracted slightly into the turtle shell.

Henry stopped going to work. 

The roads, concrete ribbons swaying in the winds of time, deteriorated.

Something awful, I’m sure, resulted