The Twelve-Minute Tales

12MT #003 - The Neighbor

2006-09-06T02:13:00.000-07:00

She had to die.

The decision to murder my emotionally disturbed, bulimic neighbor came naturally, organically. Not a sudden inspiration of vengeance, but a distillation of the previous two weeks' experience.

Apparently the woman's boyfriend had dumped her. Or maybe not, I don't know. I had never met the woman, beyond a brief moment of eye-contact in the hallway. That was enough for me to hate her, though. Even before the crying.

But the how of it... that's what had taken the time.

My first though was lacing her Kleenex with antrhax. After all, I figured, there aren't that many words floating around out there with the letter X in them. For these two to team up to kill her would not only be justice, but poetic justice. However, I dismissed this as unsatisfactorily non-violent.

Then I conceived of an explosive ham. The only time this woman seemed to muffle her sobs was with a fistful of food, which she promptly chucked right back up into the loo. The regularity with which she went to the grocery store--every 26 hours on average; I kept track--suggested that she didn't pause very often to chew, which meant I didn't have to worry about the detonator being masticated free of the payload. Of course, the trick here would be the correctly time the detonation so that it was still in her belly, rather than on the plate or in the bowl. Nah.

Suddenly, a shaft of light shone down from on high, and I had the solution to all my woes. Gravy-flavored napalm. It was elegant in its simplicity. Since in fifteen days of pressing my ear against her wall and never once hearing the sound of her dishwasher running, I could only assume that she ate with her hands. So: she would hastily slather a mound of potatoes, or french fries, or Twinkies, or whatever, with my glistening gift, and then shovel it greedily into her weeping maw. Whilst doing so, she would pause to paw at her seeping eyes, the friction of which should ignite the greasy deathtrap, thus ending her incessant bawling. Sure, I'd have to deal with her screams instead, but those would be over soon enough.

My soul lightened immediately. I began rummaging through my cabinets for the gasoline and beef bullion I'd need. Now, where did I put that shaker of magnesium..?

And that's when the meteor hit.

12MT #002 - Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy

2006-07-18T00:50:00.000-07:00

Hey, kid. Got some spare change? I haven't eaten in three days. I've been freezing my ass off...

Well, yeah it's summer, you think I'm stupid? Oh. About those Big Mac wrappers. Uh, would you believe they were there when I got here?

Okay, okay. I'm not a bum. You caught me. It's just... well, if you come up to someone on the street and start talkin' to 'em, people think you're crazy, see? But some harmless ol' street person asking for change, that's something else entirely. Completely non-threatening.

People pity the poor, but they fear the insane. There's a lesson there somewhere.

Ahh. You noticed my tights, huh? Yeah, I used to be a crime-fighter. Captain Fantastic, they called me. Me and my sidekick, the Brown Dirt Cowboy, would go on patrol every night, and...

Yeah. Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy. You got a problem with that? Great album. Sheesh, kids today. Okay, where was I?

Right. Patrolling. Now, me and the kid, we weren't no superheroes. I mean, we didn't have any powers, and I sure as hell wasn't rich enough to buy no Fantastic-Car, or invent some jet-powered Brown Dirt Bicycle for the boy. No, what we had were tights, masks, and a .38.

I held on to that, by the way. That kid was a bit of a spastic, and I didn't want any more holes in my ass, get me?

Cowboy's fits were what led me to take him on in the first place. We'd find the robbers, or muggers, or whatever, and I'd send in the kid. He'd wag his finger and start piping up about how "crime doesn't pay," or "evil never triumphs." You know, sappy shit like that. The criminals would laugh themselves sick, I tell ya.

And that's when I'd club 'em from behind.

What, you don't think that sounds heroic? Crap, man. We were outnumbered, and I only had my stretchy suit to put between their bullets and my favorite groin! What did you expect, a fair fight?

Anyhow, not much call for that kinda action these days. A grown man in tights that keeps company with adolescent boys is sick, now. "Underwear perverts," they call us.

Didn't mean nothin' by it. Just wanted to help...

12MT #001 - Brian in the Park

2006-07-13T11:33:00.000-07:00

Brian sat on the bench, admiring the birds. This park had been his favorite place for a long time--longer than he sometimes cared to remember. He could sit motionless for hours, and just let the world... happen. It was very peaceful. Brian felt good about not doing anything while at the park.

The creature at Brian's feet shifted slightly. It seemed like Charlie had been with Brian his entire life. Of course, Charlie had been with Brian his entire life--Brian could recall any moment at will, thanks to his wonderous memory implants. Over 90% of the population had these now. They were cheap, nearly foolproof, had no drawbacks, and made the users feel like geniuses. Which, compared to the unaugmented population, they effectively were.

Which is what had bothered Brian now for some time: why go through life without the implants? Intellectually, he knew that there were those who objected to implants on moral or religious grounds, but most of them had either changed their tune or died out in the past few years, once the technology had matured. Others, he figured, were simply stubborn, like Brian's great-grandfather, who refused to have indoor plumbing well into the 20th century.

Brian sighed. There was no understanding some people. He clucked to Charlie, who stood and picked Brian off the bench. Brian swiveled his head in the jar, looking fondly into Charlie's face through the nutrient fluids.

"C'mon, dad. Let's go home."

Welcome, Readers

2006-07-12T10:17:00.000-07:00

Hey, folks. Yeah, it's me: that bastard that never updates his blog. While my cookbook is coming together ever so slowly, I thought I should work on my fiction writing skills.

They need a lot of work.

See, National Novel Writing Month is coming up in just a few short months. I made a rather poor showing of it last year, and I'd really like to do better this time around. So this site will give me an excuse to flex the ol' fingers a bit more, and maybe test some ideas before the main event.

So here's the idea. I will post little bits of stuff that I run off in twelve minutes or less. That's all there is to it. The idea just came to me in the shower yesterday (to hell with the toilet; the shower is where I do my best thinking), and I know enough to put it into action before I get a chance to forget about it.

So here we go. Please feel free to comment on what you see here, and tell your friends. Oh, and if you've any interest at all in writing, be sure to check out the National Novel Writing Month website. Cool as all hell.