Which of the following is true?
a. My keyboard has teeth.
b. I only know what I know.
c. Somebody let the cat out, and it wasn’t me.
d. Plots woven around beetles are often weak.
Because I don’t know what I don’t know, I know the answer is that I only know what I know.
Keyboards definitely have teeth. Why, just the other day, mine swallowed the 7-page email I was writing to my dear old grandmother. At least, I think it was the keyboard…maybe it was the modem. I know what I know, I know, but I also know what I don’t know, you know? Sometimes I feel like I don’t know what I know. Certainly, I don’t know what I don’t know, I think. Therefore, I am.
The cat is not technically “out,” rather it is “missing.” It might have been me…I don’t know. I’d say sweaters woven around beetles are often weak, because they (the sweaters) are so tiny. Sweaters woven around The Beetles are collector’s items. Plots with beetle infestations require harsh chemicals. or hungry caterpillars.
“I only know what I know,” sputtered from my lips as the massive hand the size of a T-bone steak whacked my face with the force of a Don Drysdale pitch. My tongue licked the split in my lower lip, now numb and swollen as the coppery taste of my own blood mixed with my saliva. The last five minutes felt like an hour, and I knew the next hour would outlast my lifetime if I couldn’t come up with the correct answers.
It’s not like I ain’t taken a beating before. I have. From thugs and mugs. But not like this; not from a woman.
She extended her pinkie and thrust her pointed nail into the wound. I tried not to scream, but I did. Her grin turned to a sneer as she put her blood-tipped finger to her lips and traced their outline like a young child playing with her mother’s lipstick.
Her sneer melted into a genuine smile as she licked the blood from her lips. I tried to pull away as her mouth sought mine. I cried out as I felt her teeth grab my top lip and tug, gently at first, then with a force that left me in excruciating pain as they clamped with a vengeance, pulling as if I were carrion meat.
As I began to pass out I caught a glimpse of my severed upper lip between her teeth as she sucked it into her mouth, gave it a couple chews, and swallowed. In my fainting blackness I felt her heavy breath at my ear as she sought my ear lobe.
“I only know…”
I have had a story featured at FlashFictionWorld
Third story down, BLT, is a bit of a naughty tale.
Also my Tennessee Waltz story from several months ago is farther down the list.
That link is the actual story, this is the page I meant to link:
I loved your naughty tale filled with innuendo. I’m never disappointed when you flash us, Jeff. I enjoy the irony and humor in all your stories. Some are a bit demented but I especially enjoy your macabre tales. I guess i’m a bit demented myself. BTW, I also have two stories on Flash Fiction World but they’re from a few months ago. One is actually the 500 word assignment from Ann’s BWW and the other is also from one of Ann’s prompts. Thanks, Ann.
Of course my keyboard has teeth. That trait is what helps me turn out some nice work from time to time. (That and the Muse ) You see, my definition of “tooth” comes from an art term used by pastelists. They select paper for their craft based on the amount of “tooth” it has. The greater the tooth, the rougher the paper. More tooth creates a stronger and thicker stroke of pastel on the paper, giving the artist more control of the colors and textures of their works.
So it is that the teeth in my keyboard help me develop characters that are more colorful and stories and scenes that have fuller texture for the reader to enjoy.
So sayeth I, who only knows what I know.
(Home from Spain, suffering the lag of jets)
It was a most torturous ride by train from Liverpool. The ‘birds’ along the way made life unbearable, and our manager, well he was not a bit of help, making us sign everything in sight.
But, it was Paul’s grandfather that put us all off. A clean old man though he was, he made trouble wherever he went. He got Ringo to leave the band. Fortunately, we found him at the Constabulary.
Well, ‘right then, and off we go. It’s been a hard day’s night.
If you didn’t see this one coming…
“Plots woven around beetles are often weak.”
Love it. Speaks to an entire era.
I sat at my computer, eyes closed, hands resting lightly on the keys. What can I write to my dear, sweet grandmother? I felt a little nibble at my fingertips, which surprised me, but I kept my eyes closed, thinking good thoughts. Suddenly, my hands were wrenched into the keyboard, grinding my skin and bones, sending waves of pain up my arms. Still, I could not get my eyes open. What is happening here? My arms were being pulled farther into the keyboard and I could hear the calciferous crunch as my ulna and radius bones were pulverized to powder. Then the humerus bones suffered the same fate. The pain was torturous, unbearable. I cried out in agony. Help! Help! I’m being eaten alive. Just as my clavicles were about to be crushed, I felt this tiny scratchy tongue licking my face, and a soft rumble. I opened my eyes and was looking mano-a-gato into the curious face of my kitty, Jaws. I lay in bed, arms stretched out in front of me like a Frankenstein monster. I breathed a sweet sigh of relief and wrapped my arms around my soft bundle of cuddly fur.
Most of my computer problems have been solved, and I once again have a word processing program, so here’s my late entry to the previous post, Stuck in the Wrong Body:
I remember well the first time I held my neighbor’s infant daughter, and each time it comes to mind, my scalp prickles as if each hair is electrified
She seemed to be a fussy baby—almost agitated—pulling at her clothes and blankets, refusing to wear anything on her feet. But, it was when she opened her eyes and glared at me that I realized this tiny child was “different”, though I use “different” as a euphemism for something I did not want to explore too deeply.
That night, after I first held Wanda and rocked her gently from side to side, I found myself trapped in bed, fearful of getting up lest something under the bed grab my ankles and pull me into terror and oblivion. I did not get out of bed until the morning sun penetrated the depth of the room and drove the trolls and boogiemen into hiding.
Wanda, or WahWah as her three year old brother pronounced her name, was able to roll over by two months, crawl at three months, and at the age of seven months grabbed her mother’s thumbs, pulled herself erect and walked across the living room. She did not walk like a toddler’s drunken sailor, swinging her legs outward and then forward. No, she walked with straight legs and hips, like an adult.
At three years of age, Wanda began visiting me, knocking on my door and slipping into the house when I opened the door. She said nothing, though I had heard her speak before and knew she spoke with the cognition of an adult. She sat on a kitchen chair and glared at me until I offered her chocolate chip cookie as a peace offering. She accepted it as her due, and I knew that that night my ankles were in extreme danger should I absent-mindedly slip them from under my clovers and place them on my bedroom floor.
Wanda went on to become a gold medal winning gymnast at the Olympics at a very young age. Years later, her career in retirement and herself expecting a baby, she returned to our town to see her mother. I hoped she would have forgotten about me, but I was not so lucky.
She knocked on the door and I let her in. I jabbered on nervously as we sipped our coffee. Wanda remained silent, gazing at me intently.
Then, “Why didn’t you help me?” she asked.
I took a deep breath. “I didn’t know how,” I said at least. “I didn’t realize there were others like me.”
Hi Gullie: I’m not sure I understood the undertone of the story but the closing was excellento!
“…I said at last.”. computer might be fixed but my typing and proofreading isn’t.
Through a process of elimination I have determined that option A, B and C are clearly false. My keyboard has no mouth to hold said teeth. And other than some freak show that might have his baby teeth glued to the keyboard, you don’t either. Now that we have the internet, we all know what you know and everything anybody else knows, or thinks they know, right at our finger tips. I don’t have cats. I try not to be around people who do. They are a little freaky. The cats, not the people. Well, not all of the cat people anyway. That leaves option D. Since the question is, “Which of the following is true?” and there is no option E ‘None of the above.’ I will go with option D. Unless we had a cat. Then, I would clearly not let the cat out and leave myself in any kind of position of blame. I would then choose option C. This I know. Ouch! My keyboard bit me. Stupid keyboard.
I’m not sure option D is true when you consider that Stephan King wove a strong plot around a Plymouth Fury.
Yeah. But a Plymouth Fury was the bomb!
Not only that, I had just put a little homage to Christine in the first chapter of the novel I am working on today. HeHeHe.
Surely there’s a story out there centered around a VW beetle. Some of Sue Grafton’s early alphabet novels dealt largely with one, but it was not central to the plot. Or maybe it was as the protagonist seemed to have everything she neded in it.
There is a whole series of stories on a Carrion Beetle. I know. Funny. Right.
BTW. Are any of you guys/gals participating NaNoWriMo? I was thinking about it. In fact, I just signed up and have a login now.
What if King had written Herbie?
Somebody let the cat out, and it wasn’t me.
Cigarette smoke thick as bass notes from a sax. Poetry night at The Cellar. Pseudo-intellectuals in berets with cigarette holders, spewing crap that doesn’t rhyme. Candles glowing yellow in cheap Chianti bottles, reflected in blackness of eyes hidden behind blacker tinted shades. A clustering of fools muttering pointless words. “Hip.” “Cool.” A herd of cats, fingers snapping, as silly as trained seals clapping. Those little cups of espresso. In a corner booth a phosphor match flares, someone toking a joint. Skinny legs in leotards ask me for my order. I tell her to take a hike. She tries to shred me with disdain. I flip her off as she turns away to the bar. Bruno behind the bar scowls, guess I don’t fit the profile. He comes my way, muscle beach man wannabe. “Buy or fly,” he tells me. I snap my fingers. Twice. “Nice poem, Daddy O,” I tell him. He reaches for me and never sees the knife. What lousy three last words I think. I show myself to the door. I don’t leave a tip.
I Did some editing, might just keep it!
Cigarette smoke lays thick as bass from a sax. Its poetry night at The Cellar, pseudo-intellectuals in berets with cigarette holders, spewing crap that doesn’t rhyme. Candles glowing yellow in cheap chianti bottles reflect in blackness of eyes hidden behind blacker tinted shades. A clustering of fools mutter pointless words like “hip” and “cool,” a herd of cats, fingers snapping, as silly as trained seals clapping, sipping little cups of espresso. In a corner a phosphor match flares. Someone’s toking a joint. Skinny legs in leotards ask me for my order. I tell her to take a hike. She tries to shred me with disdain. I flip her off as she turns away to the bar and take a pull from my flask. Bruno behind the bar scowls. I guess I don’t fit the profile. He comes my way, a muscle beach wannabe. “Buy or fly,” he tells me. I snap my fingers. Twice. “Nice poem, ‘Daddy-O,’ ” I tell him. He reaches for me and never sees the knife. What lousy choice for his three last words. I show myself to the door. I don’t leave a tip.
Do. Sounds like the start of a good thriller. Although, you might have to make it third person.
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by Ann Linquist
Available in paperback or on Kindle