…and on the 8th day, micro fiction was published on some dude's blog.

Archive for the month “April, 2012”

Stairway To Blevins

Bob Blevins was a happy man. He was finally moving into his new office, at the other end of the hallway away from the stairs.

The move wasn’t due to a raise or a promotion, but to Bob, getting away from the stairs was just as good as either of those things.

Being right at the top of the stairs had driven him kind of nuts for years; even with his door closed, he’d still get distracted several times a day by groups of people going to and from lunch or a meeting or a smoke break or whatever, laughing and talking obnoxiously loud as if they were already outside.

And then there was Bill Diller. Bill was one of those guys who showed up for eight hours a day, five days a week, but never seemed to do any actual work. He’d just wander from one office or cubicle to the next, BSing with whoever was there while that person politely nodded and smiled through gritted teeth, trying to be productive.

Bob was one of Bill’s favorite targets; hardly a day went by that Bill didn’t show up and bother Bob for at least fifteen to twenty minutes, minutes which always seemed much longer than that to Bob. Bill was also the office comedian–at least in his own mind–and one of his running jokes was singing out loud, “And I’m cli-i-mbing…the stai-air-way, to…BLE-VI-INS” to announce his arrival as he approached Bob’s office.

It traumatized Bob to the point where he had stopped listening to the classic rock station on the way home from work, on the off chance he’d hear the original version of that song and it would trigger a Pavlovian response of pent-up, annoyance-induced rage. Of all the things about Bill that bugged him, that song bugged Bob the most, and he was delighted that he’d never have to hear it again.

Which made it that much worse when, on the day Bob moved, minutes after he’d finished unpacking and getting settled into the new office, he heard a familiar voice outside the room, singing out, “And I’m wal-king down…the ha-all-way, to…BLE-VI-INS”, followed by a spoken “Wow–the acoustics in this hall are even better than the stairwell…heh, heh!”

Bob started opening and closing his new desk’s drawers, trying to remember in which one he’d put his bottle of Advil. He could feel a headache coming on.



Maxwell and his crew finished up the job, ran back to the van, piled in, and peeled out of the parking lot.

They had timed it perfectly. In about three minutes, the congregants of the First United Lutheran Church were going to file out of the building to discover that someone had attached a shiny new pair of truck nuts to the rear bumper of every car in the lot during the morning service.

Maxwell sped down the road towards the Denny’s, where he was going to treat the gang to breakfast to celebrate “mission accomplished”. He couldn’t stop giggling.

Of all the things he loved about winning the lottery, his favorite was that it provided him with the funds to indulge in random acts of idiocy.

The Weirdest Dream

I had the weirdest dream last night.

I was on the red carpet at the Oscars and I was holding Meryl Streep sideways across my shoulders, for some reason.

Well, the reporters kept asking, “Who are you wearing?”, and I kept saying, “Meryl Streep!”

And still, they kept asking me, so I started getting irritated because, first of all, who covering the Oscars doesn’t recognize Meryl Streep? And second of all, holding her on my shoulders was starting to get uncomfortable; my arms, neck, back, and shoulders were all KILLING me.

But they would not stop asking me, so I just started yelling, “MERYL STREEP! MERYL STREEP!“, like, “Come on, get it through your thick skulls, idiots!”

And then, finally, I was like, “Screw this, man”, and I just dropped her. I mean–BOOM!–just let her go, Meryl Streep, greatest actress of her generation, I dropped her on her side as if we were WWE wrestlers or something. But she just got up, brushed herself off, smiled and shook my hand, like, “Nice working with you”, and was on her way down the red carpet on her own, and I was all, like, “She’s a class act.”

Crazy dream, right? I know…but you wouldn’t think so to see my wife’s reaction to it. I told her all about it this morning and all she did was glare at me. Like having a weird dream is my fault and I should feel guilty about it.

You know, I just don’t get her sometimes.


So there Fran was last night, exhausted and on the verge of drifting off to blissful sleep, when Garth attacked her.

He was already in bed fast asleep when she’d entered the bedroom earlier, so she had taken great pains to tiptoe around the bed and into the bathroom, then carefully get herself under the covers so as not to disturb him. As she pulled the blankets over herself, Fran noticed Garth hadn’t nudged a bit and was still snoring, so she thought she’d been successful.

But about twenty minutes later, out of nowhere, he sat up in bed, grabbed her with both hands, and lifted her up, putting her sideways over his shoulders while yelling, “MERYL STREEP! MERYL STREEP!” From what Fran could tell, he had stayed asleep the entire time it was happening, as he ignored her punches and screams to stop, didn’t appear to to have opened his eyes at all, and, just as quickly as he had sat up and grabbed her, dropped her off his shoulders and onto the floor, at which point he flopped back down on his pillow and immediately started snoring again.

The fact that the incident was apparently sleep-induced, however, was no comfort to Fran as she lay in bed the next morning, holding the muscles by her rib cage that Garth had yanked out of place during the previous night’s craziness.

She was furious, and it made her even more enraged that Garth was just sprawled out next to her, fully refreshed and wide awake, regaling her with the story of the “weird dream” he had last night. As he lay there giggling and babbling, Fran shot him a look that said, Really? A “weird dream”, huh? Well, tell me all about it…and then I AM GOING TO THROTTLE YOU.

It Had Been A Long Meeting

Yet another vote was taken, and finally, it was unanimous.

It had been a long meeting with many names suggested and hotly debated–specifically, there was a vocal minority who favored The Members Only Only Members Only Club–but even they were eventually convinced that The Only Members Only Club For Members Only was the name that best applied to an exclusive, by-invitation-only club for people who were nudists with the exception of their Members Only jackets.

An Important Sociological Experiment

The bus screeched to a halt, and once again, Brent found himself being kicked off by an irritated driver.

He trudged down the road to the nearest bus stop and flopped down on the bench. He threw his messenger bag off his shoulder and onto the ground next to him, then leaned forward and pulled his pen and notebook out of it.

He sat back, flipped to a new page, and added Shout out “It’s Carol Channing time!”, then start dancing and singing “Hello, Dolly!” to the list of things that WILL get you kicked off the bus.

As Brent sat there cursing the bus stop’s lack of shade while the sun beat down on him, he started to suspect he was not, in fact, embarking on “an important sociological experiment”. He started to suspect his senior colleagues had tricked him into riding the bus all over creation every day so there would be one fewer person in the lab, using its resources.

But he decided he’d take at least one more bus ride in order to try out the next item on the list. He had to admit, he was super curious how the bus driver would react to him climbing aboard, taking off his shoes and socks, and announcing “Anyone who wants to suck on my toes, meet me in the back.”

The Job You Want

Judy approached Chuck’s desk slowly, equal parts concerned and befuddled.

“Heyyy, Chuck…”

“Oh, hey Judy.” He went back to his work.


Chuck looked up again. “Yes? You need help with something?”

“All right, Chuck, I gotta ask: What’s going on with…this…?” She sheepishly motioned in his general direction.

“What? …oh, you mean my clothes? Well, have you ever heard the saying ‘Dress for the job you want, not the job you have’?”


“Well, I’ve always wanted to be an exotic dancer, sooo…”

“Sooo…that’s why you’re wearing thong bikini briefs? And why you’re slathered in baby oil?”


“And I’m curious: That Chippendales shirt-collar-and-cuffs-without-the-actual-shirt dealy? Where do you even get those?”

“At Sears, actually. They don’t have them on display, but if you go to the Men’s Department and ask someone, they’ll get ’em out of the back.”


“No–kidding! I ordered ’em online.”

“Oh…heh. Good one…WELL, anyway…I’ll let you get back to work, so…”

“OK. Good to see you, Judy. Have a good one!”

Judy wasn’t sure what was worse: That Chuck’s “outfit” was seriously out of dress code compliance, or that…well, that Chuck was dressed that way even though physically he was not, shall we say, exotic dancer material.

But at the end of the day, when she took a look at the numbers and saw that Chuck had done double his usual amount of sales–doing cold calls, no less–she had half a mind to let him continue dressing that way.

Recommended Hot Dog Pairings

“You know what’s in those things, right?”

Penny could feel a lecture coming on, so she decided to diffuse it with an ignorance bomb.

“Oh, not these. They’re…what’s the brand name called? Oh yeah–they’re called ‘Mostly Meat Franks’. They’re vegan-friendly. Try it.” She offered Al her hot dog.

“First of all, I doubt they’re called that, even though that’s probably an accurate name–minus the ‘mostly’. Second of all, do you even know what ‘vegan’ means?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t it mean stuff that was blessed by a Wiccan high priestess?”

“What? No, it–”

“I’m kidding. I know what it means. ‘Vegan’ means it has extra gluten for energy.”

“Oh, OK. I get it. You’re mocking me.”

“No, I admire you for eating healthy.” (This was true; Penny did admire Al’s committment to a healthy lifestyle. She just hated the self-righteousness that went with it). “In fact, you know what I tried for the first time earlier today? Greek yogurt! And I liked it!”

“Well, good for–”

“That’s what it’s called when you add feta cheese to yogurt, right?”

“OK, you ARE mocking. Fine–go ahead and eat that garbage. But I can’t be part of…this.” Al turned and left in a huff.

Penny went back to her hot dog. She noticed the nitrates in it tasted especially delicious when paired with a roommate’s condescension.

Earth Day

“How do I look?”

“Stupid. Why are you celebrating Earth Day, anyway? It’s not like any of those dummies celebrate Quasar X2 Day. And plus, it’s only a matter of light years until we go in and destroy that place. I wouldn’t get too attached if I were you.”

Zorkqus shuffled back to his sleep pod, took off his party hat, and sulked. He was just trying to have some fun, but apparently that was against the rules on his starship. He decided he kind of hated being in the Intergalactic Army.

Two Minutes Early

Bev pulled off the road and into the edge of the driveway.

She checked her watch. 6:58AM.

Odd–she was only two minutes early, yet no one else was there, the house’s lights were all off, and nothing was set up outside. She glanced over the ad she’d clipped from the paper. Yep, this was the place.

Bev looked up from the ad when the house’s front porch light went on, just in time to see a man burst through the front door, lift his shotgun to his shoulder, aim, and fire.

She ducked seconds before buckshot ripped through both the passenger’s and driver’s side front windows, right at the level that would have hit her in the head had she reacted just a few seconds slower.

Still ducking and covered in glass shards, she managed to open the car door and stumble onto the ground. The car was between her and the shooter now, and she peeked up over the door to see if the man was still shooting or if she could talk to him or what. Bev hadn’t planned for this turn of events; she honestly didn’t know what to do and was too shocked to think clearly.

As she looked through the holes where the car’s front windows used to be, she saw the man advancing, ready to shoot again…and five more people exit the house’s front door.

One was also armed with a shotgun, two carried baseball bats, and the other two, torches. All of them were moving swiftly towards her Camry.

So she ran. Bev ran down the road, not even taking her keys or her purse with her, as fast as she could go, her terror fueling her adrenaline as she listened for more gunshots so she could hit the ground to avoid them.

She only looked back twice. Once when she heard the sounds of glass breaking; she glanced back to see the mini mob rocking her car back and forth while beating it with the baseball bats.

The second time was when she’d hit the ground after hearing another shotgun blast. Face down, in a muddy ditch on the side of the road, Bev lifted her head and turned to see that the two of them with shotguns were shooting them into the air next to the car, which was now overturned and engulfed in flames, as the other three danced around it and hollered.

As she lifted herself up and turned her back on the scene again to keep running, vowing not to look back any more and to not stop running until she was sure she was safely out of shotgun range, she heard a voice from back at the house call to her, “The ad said ‘NO EARLYBIRDS’, and we meant it! NO! EARLY! BIRDS!

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