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

Archive for the month “October, 2012”

Just Lucky, I Guess

So check me out: Green skin? Warts? Crooked teeth? Pointy hat?

No, no, no, and no.

I drive a Toyota Camry, thank you very much. Oh, I own a broom, but like most people, I use it to sweep floors, and that’s it.

I love wearing black, and I think it looks good on me, but I avoid it at all costs because–well, you know. And I’ve been told my laugh is, in fact, kind of a cackle, which makes me super self-conscious, and that sucks.

And yes, my name is Drucilla. But it’s not like I came up with that one. Thanks, Mom and Dad.

But annoying stereotypes aside, I like who I am and what I do.

Yeah, I thought about doing something else–forging my own path or whatever. I even went to culinary school for a bit.

But I figured out after a couple of months there that mixing up ingredients was just a substitute–a poor one, at that–for my real passion: Mixing up potions.

There’s just nothing better than standing over a bubbling cauldron and adding that pinch of eye of newt that brings the whole thing together. NOTHING. Honestly, it’s so much fun I feel guilty calling it work.

So yeah, it’s my job–but it’s also my love. It’s in my blood (which is also not green, by the way).

I’m just lucky, I guess.


I Make It Work

The hair is itchy. Definitely. That’s not one of my favorite things. I don’t know how dudes who have long beards can stand it. Like those guys in ZZ Top? I don’t know–it drives me nuts. I can’t imagine having to deal with all that twenty-four/seven.

And the fact that the hair comes and goes the way it does? It wreaks havoc on your pores. I’m an adult with the complexion of a fourteen year old.

Also, it kinda bums me out that I can’t enjoy the beauty of seeing a full moon like a normal person. But for me, I go outside to do some stargazing and the next thing you know I’m standing over a mauled animal carcass–or worse, a mauled person–and I’m all covered in blood and with no memory of what the hell happened. I can tell you from experience, that’s not fun. And I once got salmonella poisoning after one of those incidents (that raccoon was in the wrong place at the wrong time), and that’s really not fun.

And I gotta say–with all due respect to the late, great Warren Zevon–I HATE THAT SONG. You know the one I’m talking about. It’s just–I guess the best way I can describe it is, say you’re an architect. And some rock star goes and writes a song about architects, and any time you ever hear that song, everyone around you starts freaking out and pointing at you and they’re all like, “Hey, it’s your song!” That would be kind of annoying, right?

Oh, and by the way? I’m not Wolverine. He’s a made-up comic book character. I don’t have blades that shoot out of my fists or whatever. Just wanted to clarify that. And I’m forty-two years old, so if you refer to me as “Teen Wolf”, prepare to be clawed.

But all those complaints to the contrary, it’s not all bad. I’m not gonna lie–the stereotype, the whole “part man, part animal” thing? It has benefitted me with the ladies from time to time, even with the aforementioned complexion problems.

And speaking of benefits, it has also helped my career. It’s a distinct advantage in business negotiations when the other guy knows that, with one fluid motion, you could literally rip his throat out at any moment.

So, yeah–it’s not a perfect life, but I make it work.

Interview With The Vampire (Not That One, Or That One, A Different One)

Probably the biggest misconception about me–well, I won’t speak for all of us, but the biggest misconception that I hear, personally, is about my looks.

I’m not Bela Lugosi, all hunched over, severe widow’s peak, bulging eyes and claw-like hands held out in front of me. I don’t wear three-piece suits, and I definitely don’t wear capes.

I don’t look like either Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt in a bad wig, powdered face, and colored contacts. Well, the pale skin is accurate, what with the whole having to stay out of the sun thing.

I’m not sparkly.

And I don’t look like any of those True Blood dudes. I wish…but I could exercise twenty hours a day and not look like those guys.

The truth is, we’re just like “regular” people when it comes to looks. Most of us are average. A good number of us are overweight, and we’re self-conscious about it. About the weight, and the fangs. They freak people out, and they make my gums itchy.

But probably my biggest pet peeve is when people try to give me stuff to drink that’s “just like blood”.

It’s not, OK? I know you mean well, but it’s just not.

Believe you me, if there was a real-life Tru Blood available and I didn’t have to steal from hospitals or blood banks or suck on the neck of the occasional living human, I’d be all over that. But that’s just not reality.

Probably the worst ever was one time when a guy offered me some tomato soup. Because, you know, I drink blood because I just want something warm, thick, and red. Moron. I chomped his neck good just out of spite.

So I guess, to sum up: Don’t act all surprised when you see me. I know–I look differently than you thought I would. Well, this isn’t TV or the movies, so get over it.

And if I say I want blood, I want blood. If you offer me microwaved V8 and say “Have you tried this?”, what you’re really saying is “I’m an idiot society would never miss, and I have a whole body full of blood right here, free for the taking.”

You’ve been warned.



FYI: I publish stuff on this blog from a location that, while not expected to bear the brunt of Sandy, may experience high winds, lots of rain, flooding, and (not likely, but) possible snow. Which could all lead, by themselves or together, to power outages.

All that’s to say that, I’m going to do my best to keep posting my stories every day…and I’m definitely going to keep writing one a day, no matter what. But just in case you tune in here sometime soon and there’s no story posted for the day, or a day (or more) goes by and you don’t get your email notification, that’s why. If this should happen, I’ll just double (or triple, quadruple–whatever) up on the posts to make up for any day(s) missed.

And also: I write all this knowing full well that if Sandy is as bad as expected, some dude’s blog is the last thing to be concerned about. Just lettin’ you know mainly for you lucky ones out there who aren’t in the storm’s path. For all of you who are in the path: Stay safe and dry!

Rant Of The Mummy

You know what twists my bandages in a bunch? When people call me “irritable”. I really take exception to that.

Not because it’s untrue, just because they act all surprised about it, as if I have no reason for feeling that way.

I mean–well, I’ll put it this way: Say you’re in bed. Fast asleep, curled up under the covers, nice and toasty. And then, say, in the middle of the night, your covers get yanked off you, and you wake up to find yourself surrounded by a buncha lame-o Indiana Jones-wannabe archaeologists who are all hooting and hollering and high-fiving each other because they’ve “discovered” you. Then, say, these same guys just start looting your place, right there in front of you, because apparently your stuff isn’t your stuff anymore–it’s all “artifacts” that they’re going to sell to a museum because, you know, it’s their stuff now.

Let me ask you: If you had the ability to put curses on people, would that not be a situation where you’d use that power? Exactly. And why? Because I’m guessing you’d be irritated by those morons, am I right?

That’s what I thought.

Oh, and also: You ever have a cast, or have a Band-Aid or some kind of bandage on you, and it gets itchy under there? Yeah?

So, imagine your entire body is covered in one giant Band-Aid. You’re itchy right now just thinking about it, aren’t you?

So, look–“irritable”? Fine: Guilty as charged. But don’t give me that look or that tone of voice. I think I’ve earned the right to be “irritable”, OK?

Frank Thoughts

You know, honestly, I have no complaints. I mean, I used to be dead.

Well, technically, I guess I used to be several dead guys, but you know what I mean.

I do have a few what I would call minor grievances. It would’ve been nice to maybe date for a bit and possibly find my soul mate instead of being part of this whole arranged marriage thing. Don’t get me wrong–I love my wife. Love her. I do sometimes think “what if”, though, you know? I think most people in my situation would.

Then again, I have a bunch of single friends, and quite a few of them would tell you dating sucks, so maybe the grass isn’t greener on the other side. And, plus–you know, lots of happy couples will tell you they and their partner were “made for each other”, but my wife was LITERALLY made for me. How cool is that?

So there’s that.

I also wish I wasn’t so afraid of fire. It’s embarrassing how freaked out I get by it. I’m working on that, though.

I wish I could sing “Puttin’ On The Ritz” better.

And I sometimes get itchy around the neck bolts.

But that’s about it–like I said, minor grievances. And who doesn’t have some of those, right?

Oh–I also don’t care for the term “monster”. I prefer “recycled, multi-racial multi-ethnic man” (ReMultRaMultEth for short).

But again, minor grievances. Life–or I guess I should say, second life–is good.

From Inside The House


“Ms. Nelson? This is Sergeant Hopper from the Bayview Police Department. You need to get out of there–we traced those threatening calls you’ve been getting. They’re coming from inside the house.”

“Huh…really? So is it on the landline? Because how would that work? I mean, you can’t call your own number and actually get through, right? It’d be busy or go to voicemail, wouldn’t it? So is it a cell phone? How did you trace that? Did you ‘triangulate’ the signal? And is that a real thing or is that just some made up mumbo-jumbo term they use on those CSI-type shows? I tell you what, if that is a real thing, I wish you guys would ‘triangulate’ the location of some real food in this place. Lamest house-sitting job ever. You want to know what I found so far? Some stale Wheat Thins. And as far as drinks go? Fresca. And there’s buttermilk in the fridge that expired, like, seven months ago. I mean, I get it–it’s a vacation home, they’re almost never here so they don’t keep the place stocked up–but buttermilk? I–”

“Ms. Nelson, I really think–”

“And Fresca! You’re on vacation–have a Pepsi for God’s sake, am I right?”

The man in the ski mask standing behind Annie dropped his arms to his side, letting the length of piano wire he was holding in his hands go slack. He slowly backed away as she continued.

“…and I get it, I’m the house-sitter, my job is to make sure the house is OK and stuff. But I don’t see why the Palmers have to be all ‘NO guests’, you know? ‘No parties’ I would understand, but I can’t have, like, ONE friend over? Then again, I don’t think any of my friends are big fans of spoiled buttermilk, so they probably wouldn’t be interested in hangin’ out here anyway, know what I mean?”

The man in the ski mask slowly backed out the front door, then shut it behind him as quietly as possible.

He had totally planned on murdering Annie, but the thought of having to listen to another minute of her musings–even if it was only until the wire successfully crushed her windpipe–was too much for him.

Love You More

“All right, well, I gotta go…OK…love you more…no, I do–I love you more…well, no, it’s…it’s…honey, it’s a fact, I love you more, I…it does matter…well, it matters to me…well, which…which one of us shoved the other out of the way of that oncoming bus?…Exactly, so…so…no, I’m not “holding it over your head”, I’m just…look–have you ever shoved me out of the way of an oncoming bus?…Didn’t think so. So that settles it–I saved your life, you haven’t saved mine–I love you more, case closed…no, that’s…that’s not the same thing…no, it’s not–first of all, you can’t prove I would’ve died if you hadn’t performed CPR on me, second…no–no, you can’t prove that…well, that was one doctor’s opinion. Second…second of all, if you hadn’t performed CPR, someone else would have, so…the EMT! EMTs can do CPR!…They would have been there in time to do it…yes, they would have! My…my point is, lots of people can do CPR, not a lot can shove people out of the way of buses…well, OK–agree to disagree…and…and third of all, you were trained in CPR, I wasn’t trained in shoving people out of the way of oncoming buses, so…my point is, who loves someone more? Someone who does what they already know how to do to quote-unquote “save their life”? In other words, someone who’s kinda just doing their job, when you think about it? Or someone who leaps into action with no regards to whether or not they’ve been trained and just acts on the, the pure instinct that ‘I have to save this person’s life’?…OK, that’s what I thought…so that settles it then, am I right?…OK, honey…love you more…Bye.”

Roger hung up the phone and shook his head. He loved Lori–loved her more than she loved him, that was an undisputed fact–but she could be REALLY argumentative sometimes.

You Can’t Go Wrong With Puns. You Just Can’t.

“I will BURY you”, said the shovel.

“You wish”, said the magic lamp with the genie inside it.

“Hey guys, calm down”, said the aromatherapy candle.

“Yeah, dudes–chill”, said the ice bucket.

Losers, thought the World’s Greatest Dad mug.

Mr. Snuggles


“Hi there!”

“And you are…?”

“My name is Tim Worley, and this…is Mr. Snuggles!”

“Um, Tim?”


“Mr. Snuggles appears to be a dirty mop head with a pair of googly eyes stuck to it.”

“Yes…is there a problem?”

“Well, yes. This is the Most Adorable Kitten competition.”


“The Creatures Made Out Of Dirty Mop Heads competition is next door in room 308.”

“Oh! So sorry–thank you. Sorry!”

Tim gathered up Mr. Snuggles and headed next door.

And the two of them won an Honorable Mention in both the Creatures Made Out Of Dirty Mop Heads and Most Adorable Kitten competitions.

There weren’t a lot of entries in the Most Adorable Kitten competition.


“OK, everyone–if we could all just grab a seat in the circle of chairs here, we’ll go ahead and get started. I must say I’m very pleased with the turnout! Thank you all for coming. Let’s go ahead and start with introductions. If you could all just state your name and briefly tell us what brought you to the group, that’d be great. I’ll start, and then let’s go to my left and work clockwise around the circle. My name is Kelly Clarkson–yes, spelled the exact same way–and I started this group because…well, I just thought I can’t be the only one out there. And it looks like I was right!”

“Hi. I’m Glenn Stefani, and I’m here because I’m sick of being called a ‘Hollaback Girl’.”

“I’m Brady Gaga. You know, it was always tough living with a weird last name, but the past few years have been–well, it’s been a whole other level.”

“I’m Tony Braxton–Tony with a Y, thank you. I’m here because the next time someone tells me “unbreak my heart”, they’re going to quickly beg me to “unbreak their face”. And I don’t go by Anthony Braxton–I REFUSE. I was Tony Braxton long before that other one was, so I ain’t changin’ for no one.”

“Hear, hear!” called a voice from about the nine o’clock position on the circle. “I’m with ya, pal. I’m gonna be eighty years old in a few months, so you know I was around before She Who Shall Not Be Named. Legend, schmegend–I am not Robert, Rob, or Bobby. I am BOB Restreisand–that’s my name, and I’m stickin’ to it!”

“OK, um, good for you, Bob. My name is Jordan Sparks, and I didn’t even think anything of my name my whole life until–I guess it was about two years ago–I started dating a woman named Blake Lewis. People would snicker when they found out our names. And so, anyway, here I am.”

“Hi y’all. I’m Kerry Underwood, and it looks like we got a little American Idol champ contingent goin’, heh heh. Anyway, I’m here because it’s been hard for me with the name, particularly at work. Jokers call up my trucking company night and day asking if “Jesus ever takes the wheel”, or mock-threatening to “take a Louisville Slugger to both headlights” on one of our fleet. When those calls first came in, I thought they were real threats. It freaked me out!”

The next man stood up. “Hi, my name’s Joe DeSee, and I, um, think I came to the wrong group. Sorry.”

He quietly left the room.

“Hi everyone. My name is Jonas Bourne, and I don’t know anything about God. I want people to stop asking me hypothetical questions about what it would be like if He lived among us.”

“Hi, I’m Lindsey Buckingham, and it’s–”

“I’m sorry, Lindsey”, Kelly cut him off. “But, the other Lindsey Buckingham is a man.”

“Oh, huh. All right, then. Good day, gentlemen.”

Lindsey saluted, picked his jacket up off the back of his chair, and was off.

“Um, hi. I’m Telly Furtado, and I’m NOT like a bird.”

“Hello, all. My name is Sheldon Degeocello, and I’m tired of hearing about the “wild night” or whatever it is.”

“OK–last but not least. I’m John Jett, and the funny thing is, I do love rock-n-roll! But I am tired of being told to put dimes in jukeboxes.”

“OK–thank you all”, Kelly said. “I’m really pleased with this group. I have a good feeling about this.”

“Yeah, I guess you could say some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this–am I right, Kelly?” Kerry cracked.

A couple of the guys laughed. Kelly looked up at Kerry, fire in his eyes.

“Why, I oughta–”

Kelly lunged for Kerry’s neck, latching onto it as the others rose from their seats, the circle collapsing in a free-for-all.

And that was the entirety of the first–and last–meeting of the support group for Guys Who Have Names That Are Very Similar To Those Of Female Pop Stars.

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