Squirt gun full of poison

Category: Humor Page 1 of 2

Day Late, Armageddon Short

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By William DeGeest

                The lead rider looked down at the slightly more than middle aged woman that was standing in front of him in the middle of her driveway.

                He raised his head to scan the landscape. Straight ahead was an unremarkable farmhouse and a few outbuildings. The grass was mostly brown and crispy. The sky was a sickly yellow with a dull sun trying to shine through. Off in the distance of the flat plain, green and gold lightning flashed from rust colored clouds. Occasionally tiny pieces of ash fell.

                Turning back to the woman, he looked her up and down. Flannel shirt, denim bib overalls, and muck boots. Long gray-brown hair loosely tied up in back. A gray and white cat came up and rubbed against her leg. He turned in his saddle to see his three companions. They shrugged.

                “What the f…” he muttered.

Deviled Eggs

I was inspired early in the morning to write two different stories based on this title. The other can be found here.

Deviled Eggs

By

William DeGeest

Title by Ashely Schaaf Botha

The potluck at the VFW was already filling up by the time Ann arrived. Kids were chasing each other outside and a few adults were clustered in small groups, chatting away. Ann grabbed a big covered plastic tub out of the back seat of her car as Mac came over to help.

“These your deviled eggs, Annie?” he said.

“You bet, Mac. Go ahead and grab some of that Tupperware and take it inside.” Ann hadn’t owned an actual piece of Tupperware in years, but every plastic container was called that by most people in these parts.

Mac helped carry in the eggs and as a reward was given an advance egg that he could not resist.

“Best deviled eggs around, as usual.” Mac smiled as he finished chewing up his treat.

Manawaker Studio’s Flash Fiction Podcast: “Visitor at the Door” Is UP!

I posted a bit ago (link) about this and here is it! Couldn’t be happier with CB Droege’s performance. Thank you, sir! Also on iTunes and at the Manawaker site.

Please check out Manawaker Studio and if you enjoyed it would be great if you shared!

 

 

 

The Visitor at the Door

Adam sat at the kitchen table. His elbow firmly planted on its surface, hand of the same arm holding up his head. A sigh escaped his mouth as he slowly blinked.

“I’m so bored.” He drew out the so.

“Nothing ever happens around here,” the twelve year old said to the empty room.

Minutes ticked away.

Three loud knocks came from the door.

The Great Possum Fire Of Aught Three

Let me just start off by sayin’ that havin’ told this story a time or two already, I expect you havin’ a question or three and maybe doubtin’ the whole scenario. Well, let me alleviate those concerns and assure you this is not a tale of fiction. And if by the end you still want to challenge the veracity of my tellin’ we can have that conversation afterword. And depending on your tone that may or may not involve the rearranging of your nose and or teeth.

Savotano Elobas

Elbert Osprey stood in front of the large oak door, not wanting to go in. He put his left hand on the grey stone wall next to the door and leaned. How much regret would he feel later when just standing here filled his body with pain? Just a boy, he thought, how can such a burden be placed on just a boy? But the consequences of not opening the door were far heavier. Why had it come to this?

The Deviled Eggs

I was inspired early in the morning to write two different stories based on this title. The other can be found here.

The Deviled Eggs

By

William DeGeest

Title by Ashely Schaaf Botha

Jacob Ledbetter was a simple man who lived a simple life on his simple little farm place. He did however have a not so simple problem. Deviled eggs.

Not the popular appetizer made with hard-boiled eggs, but what could only be described as possessed chicken eggs. Little ovoid shapes with two obscene feet sticking out through the bottom, wreaking havoc on Jacobs meager few acres. They chased the cats, head-butted the dog and mocked the milk cow. Little chittering noises came from inside the shells, often sounding like demonic giggles. The chickens who laid these abominations were in a constant state of confusion.

Many theories were bandied about by the locals. Chicken coop built over ancient burial site? Gateway to hell? Government experiment gone wrong? Sleeping elder god, waiting to rise once more and make sandwiches out of the locals?

Jacob doubted the last one. After all, his eyeballs were still intact and his dreams had not driven him mad.

And for his part, Jacob was surprisingly undisturbed about it. To a man like him, dirt-poor, small-time farmer whose wardrobe consisted only of t-shirts, bib overalls and work boots, it was just one more hardship to be endured. Droughts, insects, blight, and the occasional coyote attack were the norm for this life, what could hell-spawn chicks do that was worse? Add that the fact most of their antics never rose above the level of mischievousness, Jacob could deal.

Like the time the pick-up wouldn’t start and he found one stuck in the exhaust pipe. He grabbed it by its scale covered, long talon feet and yanked it out. It gave two smokey coughs (not sure how that works, Jacob thought) and staggered off.

Once a priest came knocking on the door, offering to help get rid of this evil that had befallen Jacob’s place. Jacob shrugged his shoulders and said, “Sure, why not.”

Fifteen minutes later the priest ran screaming off the property, at least a dozen eggs clinging to him. Jacob swore he heard them calling the fleeing man of the cloth “mommy” as he hoofed it as fast as he could go. The priest would send someone for his car.

Jacob awoke with a start at three in the morning one time and clicked on his bedside lamp to see a sea of bipedal ovals, each turned up toward him as if looking at him with smooth, white, eyeless faces. Jacob stared back.

This stand-off lasted for a good fifteen minutes before he heard a twitter from one of the eggs in the back row. It started to twitch and let out an “Ahhaaahaaaahaaaaahaaaa!” as it ran out of the house. Soon the rest followed suit except for one who continued to look up at Jacob. Jacob raised his eyebrows and made a sweeping gesture with his finger to the emptiness surrounding the lone creature. It turned left, then right, lowered its shell and took a long arc out the bedroom door, at one point looking up at Jacob and shaking its “head.”

“I guess they cracked before I did,” Jacob said with a yawn, turning off the light and going back to sleep.

This went on for many years. The eggs never broke open to reveal anything other than the raptor-like feet. Their numbers seemed to stay pretty consistent through-out the years, even though more were laid all the time. Jacob didn’t want to think about where the others went.

Finally, one fall morning, Jacob did not get out of bed. His heart had stopped during the night. The dog, realizing he had no one to be loyal to anymore, hightailed it out of there as fast as he could. When people saw him running down Main Street, everyone knew Jacob was gone.

There was a big turnout for his funeral, despite fears of unwanted guests. Thankfully none showed. Jacob’s animals were sold and taken away, the chickens never laying another egg and allowed to live out their lives pecking on the lawn of the widow Marshall. The cow was taken by a local petting zoo and was still occasionally picked on. The cats were cats. They found their own new homes and were fine.

As for the critters, no one knew for sure. Once the coop was torn down, they seemed to be lost and walk around the farm with no purpose and wandered off in all directions. But for the locals, most figured they had stuck around to create more disorder.

And in that town and the surrounding farms the people who lived there would get funny looks from outsiders after their cars broke down and their phones stopped working and all manner of inconveniences would befall them.

“Those god-damned deviled eggs,” they would say.

FIN

Fictional Accounts of Actual Conversations Number One

“Hey, Jim! Are there any good strip clubs around here?”

The question had come from one of the many gathered at Dan’s house for pre-bar hopping cocktails. Dan and Jim were best friends, sharing, among other things, a bit of an odd sense of humor.

“Okay, why do you assume that is a question I would know the answer to?” Jim replied.

Someone else piped up, “You just seem like the type!” A few laughs came from the room.

Jim smiled.  “Actually, I really don’t like strip clubs much.”

A few more laughs and maybe a “bullshit” or two.

“No, it’s true. Oh yeah, naked women I can’t touch. I have enough frustrations in life, alright?”

“If you pay them enough you can touch,” came the response. More laughter.

“Oh, sure,” Jim began, “but if I touch I want to lick, if I lick I want to bite and if I bite the next thing you know it is three AM and I’m out in the middle of nowhere digging a shallow grave.” He calmly took a sip a beer.

The crowd stared at Jim and was silent. All except for Dan, who was laughing so hard he almost passed out.

And the Dough Shall Rise

My maternal grandmother was a woman of vast skills.  She was an excellent cook and baker, could refinish, repair and restore just about any piece of furniture, put down several types of flooring, play the violin and garden like nobody’s business.

Not a perfect woman by any means, but when it came to her and said skills, her biggest flaw was hating when she wasn’t good at something right out of the gate. There in is a quick true story.

When she was a newlywed she tried to make homemade bread for the first time.  She did everything right, or so she thought, but the dough refused to rise.  Just lay there like a lump of, well, dough that wouldn’t rise, I guess.  She was so embarrassed by her failure she decided to get rid of the evidence of her shame.  She buried the dough in the back yard.

The rest of the day went on, seemingly uneventful.  Until the afternoon sun moved to hit the mound of dirt that hid her secret.  The rays hit the spot and caused the ground to warm up just enough to activate the yeast in the dough.  As day slid into evening, the cooling air spread a low hanging mist in the yard and the concoction began to rise, pushing its way out of the ground.

It was Night of the Living Bread.

Did You Hear the One About…

Stop me if you’ve heard this one.

A well off, upper middle class guy was unsatisfied with his life. This lead to poor performance at his job and his marriage and almost everything else. Soon enough he had lost his job and his wife left him and took the kids and even the dog. Now destitute and alone, he was even more convinced there had to be more to all of this. He decided to find the meaning of life.

For years he traveled as a vagabond, chasing every lead he could find. He talked to clergy, philosophers, voodoo priest, gurus, wise men and anyone who would listen and try to answer his simple question. What is the meaning of life? No one had the answer.

But he kept hearing rumors, mere whispers at times, that there was a man who knew. Tucked away is some lost corner of the world was someone with the answer he needed. He would find this man.

For even more years he followed every dead end trail, surviving only by the kindness of strangers. His clothes became tatters, his body broken, but his will stayed tempered steel. He needed to know.

Finally, while following a vapor of a wisp of a spider’s silk of a chance, he found himself climbing a mountain in Nepal. He had no gear, his shoes and clothes falling apart. He lost several fingers and most of his toes to frost bite on the accent by the time he reached the summit. There, in the lotus position, but floating four feet off of the rocky surface of the peak, was the man he had sought. Almost dead from hypothermia and starvation, he stumbled to the man.

“Please, please, tell me the meaning of life!” he said with as much force as his weakened body could muster.

“Life,” the floating old man said, eyes remaining closed, his white beard, hair and robes blowing in the wind, “Life is a fountain.”

“What?” Rage began to boil in the seeker’s body. “Life is a fountain? I have lost everything in my life! Family, friends, wealth, health, self-respect! God damn it! I have lost fingers and toes to get here and you tell me, life is a fountain?” His shaking with rage was greater that his shivers from the cold.

The levitating old man opened his eyes, blinked his eyes and then looked at the shambles of a human before him, and once again spoke.

“Life’s not a fountain?”

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