Category Archives: My Writings


She sings and she dances and she laughs.
She grins and she nudges and she pokes.
She tells as many jokes as possible and creates smiles wherever she goes.

She likes people.
Good, bad, and insane.
Simply because they respond.

And when they stop,
She finds more.

She sounds the happiest, moves the most energetic, and she smiles the most cheerful.
She makes friends, fills up jars with faces and names and numbers.
She works for words and voices, puts in ridiculous effort to bait so many lures.

She uses people.
Good, bad, and insane.
Simply because they speak.

And when they stop,
She cries.

Silence is powerful. There is strength in silence. There is beauty too. However, it also brings fear. For in quiet, we are forced to listen to our thoughts and face our mental monsters.


Don’t Tell The Truth

I’m scared, she says. So scared.

Of what? I asked.

Hate, she whispers. I’m so scared that this hate will never go away.

I tell her it will. I tell her to forget about it. To smile and keep moving, because it will all be fine.

I don’t tell her that I feel the same.

I don’t say what I really think.

That it will always be there. That it will call itself hurt, pity, regret, distrust, or sorrow. That it will fester and never fully heal.

No matter the time passed. The years spent in wasted effort.

I don’t tell her the truth.


Because I want to believe my lies too.

The hardest lies we ever tell, are the lies we tell ourselves. For only then, do we realize how great of cowards we really are.

The Fountain of Youth

It’d been a long, hard journey, but now, gazing at the crystal droplets spattering near their feet, they could all say it was worth it.


It had seemed worth it at first.

“Alright, let’s make a list here boys. Gather ’round.”

“List?” Piper asked. Being the youngest and all usually had him questioning everything, almost as if he was sure the old captain was out of his mind every time he gave out a command. And usually, he was. But no one ever told Piper that. “Why a list?”

The Captain gave him the evil eye, causing the rest of the members to cross themselves. One of these days, the Captain would go too far and they weren’t going to get caught up in that. Not after loosing Sanders.

“To make the order of who drinks when, obviously.”

Piper nods. That was sane enough, he supposed.

After a bit of scrambling around, the Captain holds a scrap of paper and blunt pencil in his hands (There’s a moment of sheepish meekness when Kitt hands him the scrap as there’s remnants all along the edges of tic-tac-toe matches – champion still undetermined.)

“Alright, who wants first?”

There’s a momentary pause. No one had even considered going first. Usually, that was the unavailable spot, the Captain having claimed the position ever since their first raid.

Lee raises his hand. “We can go first, sir?”

The Captain nods. “Of course. Why not?”

They all look at each other, perplexed. This was just not normal. Was it a test? What were they supposed to do? They weren’t prepared at all. What was the proper etiquette for this kind of thing?

Finally, the brave Lee speaks again. “We’d rather you go first, Cap’n.”

“What? Why?” Narrowed eyes make them all take a step back, leaving Lee to brave it alone. “Is there something y’all know about that I don’t?”

“No,” Lee says, choosing his words carefully. “We’d just rather have you go first. It makes things a lot easier for us.”

“Easy how?” The words are soft and menacing, with a hint of suspicion. “Why do I have to go first?”

No one could respond and really there was no saving the situation for now the seed of doubt had been planted. And it was only made worse when Piper made noted aloud that the water seemed to be changing colors.

And well, after that, everyone stepped carefully away from the fountain’s rounded edges.

“Why do you suppose it’s doing that?” the Captain asked, attention now on the purple, well red, no blue, wait green water. Was it just him or were the changing colors changing faster?

Kitt shrugged in response and pushed Piper forward. “The youngest can go first then. We can all take turns after.”

“Hah!” the boy snarled and struggled backwards. “I’m young, but not stupid. Besides I’m not the one who needs the drink the most. Why don’t you go first?”

They begin shoving back and forth, close to breaking out into fists and kicks, until suddenly a voice calls out from the outskirts of their group. “I vote Dave goes first!”

“In your dreams!”

“Then why not Lee? He’s the brave one.”

Defending himself quickly, Lee swiftly swings a punch at the offender’s face. “How about no.”

Meanwhile, observing the men from afar, the keeper of the fountain rubs his temples and sighs. He had really thought that this group had potential. That finally, he’d get to see for himself what would happen to those who actually drank from the water. Supposing that pirates were brave men was apparently a fool’s thought, since none of the men seemed to have the balls to even try the water.

He was a fool though, he supposes. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to be deceived again by promising words and tough talk. And now if no one ventured to drink from the fountain anytime soon, this old fool would have to go down there himself and see what’s up. Which was not something he any desire to do. Who knows what could happen to him if he did.

But, hopefully, someone else would come by looking before then.




This was in response to a writing prompt from reddit:

Someone found the fountain of youth, but after all the hype no one dares to get in.

Dear The Hated (It Starts Like This),

I am writing this letter in order to get some feelings off my chest. I hate you. There, I said it. Of course, I’m sure you’ve always known I hated you ever since that day and I’m sure that you might have noticed that prior to that day there had been a steadily increasing dislike in my feelings toward you. I didn’t really keep it a secret and I’m sure it was obvious from my face.

Perhaps, I might have liked you or at least tolerated you had things not gone the way they did, but I guess that’s pretty pointless now.

This letter is pointless as well (for you at least, since you’ll likely never read it), but for me it’s almost liberating. I’ve kept this pretty bottled up inside and it’s about time that I let it out. It’s supposed to be healthy right? Not keeping everything in, I mean.

So yeah. I hate you. I hate you so much that I’ve designated you as my pit person.

A girl in my class told me what that was a long time ago. And I can assure you that you are it, though if the situation ever does call for someone to be thrown into a pit, I really hope that for both our sakes, I do the right thing. I’m not a bad person, in fact, I’m pretty set on trying to be the best person I can be. I don’t like to see people hurt, but there’s just something about you that a part of me wishes I’d do something really mean and bad to you.

Like slash your tires for instance.

Or smashing your face into a brick wall.

Or crossing my fingers, wishing, whenever I think of your reckless driving. (By the way, that’s really dangerous you know. Of course, you never listened to me about it before so why bother changing that now?)

Or for instance, spreading all those ‘secrets’ you told me about.

Unfortunately, I can’t seem to do it.

Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried VERY HARD to get my mouth talking, blabbing everything you ever said. I mean, after all, you have my share of secrets as much as I have yours and I’m pretty sure you haven’t wasted any time in spreading those. Fortunately, our senior class actually liked me so those haven’t come back to bite me in the ass at all.

But, like I said, I’ve really tried. And I almost have on numerous occasions under encouragement by several people but every time, I end up with a lame “I can’t. There’s a line, guys.” And you know what?

There really is a line. A small and thin line, but it’s there and while I can pretend to ignore it, I still know it’s there.

I don’t want to cross that line. Because if I do, then I’d be you. And I never ever want to be you.

And now thinking over that, I realize something really important.

More than hating you, I pity you.

To be so disliked by so many people (And trust me, there’s a lot of them, sadly.), that has to be depressing. More so with the knowledge that that’s never going to really change. Perhaps if you treated others better, you’d get treated better as well.

I get that you are the way you are because of all the shit that’s happened to you. Shit happens and I’m so sorry that it does, but trying to get other people to wallow in the same shit you have, that’s not right. At all.

I pity you a lot.

You know, before I invited you to hang out with me and my friend, I knew a lot about you. And of those things I knew, one thing should have prevented me from ever trying to be close to you. See, I knew about you and the person I had dated previously. Yeah I knew. But did I care? No, not really. I overlooked that and even to this day, I don’t hold any harsh feelings towards you over that. I think it was dumb, stupid, and a reflection of bad character, but I don’t hate you for that like most would.

See, I tried to be nice to you because I knew that people can be so cruel and sometimes people just need a chance to show that they can be good. However, you took that chance and stomped all over it.

I invited you in. I let my family invite you in. We cared, you know. When very little people gave a shit, we did.

But you had to screw it up. And I very much don’t give second chances when the screw up is that big.

Maybe, if it hadn’t involved family, then maybe I would forgive you. But it did. And for me, family aways comes first. Before anything.

Do you understand?

I’ve always felt like you didn’t since you never even attempted to apologize for what you did (not that I would’ve accepted it). I’m not that good at plainly explaining though, so you’ll have to pardon the way in which I do so. See, a long while before, my group was preparing a packet of our written works to send in to a competition. And at the time, I was still extremely overwhelmed by what had happened between us that almost instantly, I was inspired to tell our story. All three of us, I mean.

I stored that piece away, keeping it hidden from everyone save for a select few. Except now, I want to share it. Maybe one day, if you ever read this, you’ll finally get why I despise you so much and maybe you’ll realize the full extent of what you did. But, maybe you won’t. And that’s fine with me.

Of course, there’s no way I managed to fully implement our characters, motivations, and thoughts since I could only write from my point of view, but I think I did fairly well in trying to keep it as most un-biased as someone in my position could. Did it really win anything? Not really. I never expected it to. It was written in only a few hours and was far too emotionally driven that even a damn good polishing couldn’t have saved the piece from the disaster that it was. However, it accomplished what I set out to do.

More than anything, this story reflects the fear you caused within me. It is fiction, yes. The whole story is fiction, but it mimics our situation so well and displays clearly the fear you sprung into my heart.

That’s why I hate you. Because you have made this ending very possible.

I will stop you though. The difference between my story and I is that I can change the ending.

I still have time.

Read the rest of this entry

Risky Clientele

“What… what are you doing?”

“Just close your eyes and relax. Yes, like that. Both of them.”

With great reluctance the blonde finally settles in my arms and I quickly prepare myself once more to what was about to occur. Years of doing this and it never gets any easier. Except, of course, when my clients happen to be attractive. As this was not the case, it was a bit more difficult on my part to get motivated.

Money is great help when it comes to that.

“What are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry, just keep your eyes close. Don’t open them. Just a few more seconds, okay?” I reassure her as I pinch the bridge of my nose. How was I going to do this? Small and quick? While less sacrificial for me, there’s always the possibility that I wouldn’t get all the information I needed. Big and long, and I risk traumatizing myself all over again.

“Okay… “ Well, here goes nothing.

I take a deep breath and lean in. Slow. Slow. Slow. My lips a fraction apart from hers. Long, quick, not so sure, but I go with my instincts. A quick peck and my lips brush hers. Oh god. Did she eat garlic or something?

“Wha-” and her lips part in surprise and I’m so not ready for this. Holy tongue. Tongue. I’m so raising my fee.

Oh my gosh, he kisses better than Jason and Paul! If I’d known what I’m missing than I totally wouldn’t have had sex with the bastards. Is it his age? Maybe experience? Looks?

More than I’d like to know and definitely enough to stop this. Now.

I wrench my lips from hers and wipe the back of my mouth with my hand. I’ll gurgle some mouthwash later, but for now it’d have to do.

Turning to Paul, who looking none too friendly has his hands balled into fists, I say, “Your girlfriend is cheating on you.” I straighten my shirt and brush off a stray lint from my pant leg. “With some guy named Jason.” His mouth drops open and he turns to her, outraged.

Jason?” He shouts. “My best friend?!

Ooh, that has got to hurt. “I know it must be hard and all and you probably feel like shouting, but let’s get the most important things settled now.” He turns to me with restrained fury. “Now concerning my fee…”

“WHAT?” I wince and try to annunciate my words a bit more slowly this time. “My fee.”

He raises his fists. “It’s a bit more than I’d thought it’d be…”

Advance in his steps towards me and he’s suddenly a lot more closer than I would’ve liked.

“You kiss my girlfriend, tell me she’s cheating on me, and you expect me to pay you more than what we agreed on?!”

I hesitate for a few seconds, unsure of how I was supposed to answer that. Truthfully? Because I sure as hell would say yes. But, on the other hand, my face is really content with it not having a fist shoved in it.

“Well…” I start slow, after all we have to ease these injured pride guys in, “if you look at it like that, then I guess it’s as ugly as you make it seem…”

“I can’t believe this!!” And he swung.

All I can say is that I knew it would hurt.

Oh and I’m definitely collecting my fee upfront from now on.




For being away from this blog for awhile, I’m double posting! Mainly to show that yes, I’m writing…


What Is A Tragedy? (Wolfeh’s Prize)

For winning my challenge/contest thing with this post, I said I’d give Wolfeh-Chan a prize and so here it is!

At first, I had though about whipping out my old art skills (I don’t really draw for anyone but myself, and even then, it’s been a long while since I actually did something aside from doodles), but then after speaking with the awesome Wolfeh, I felt inspired to write this short story! (I’m sure she knows what I am talking about…)

Anyways, this short story is dedicated to Wolfeh. Thanks for participating and really hope you like it. If not, I can totally write something else or draw something awesome. I can do tigers pretty well.




What Is A Tragedy


He had tried to be good once. Just once. Long before everything had gone from just plain bad to horrendously worse. Before the last ice cream drops had evaporated from the pavement. Before the last of spring faded away and the green left the trees and the bees’ buzzing faded away. Long before the beginning of the story came into being. That’s when he had tried

And that’s when he had realized he could never be more than a villain.

It was not fair. He supposed everyone knew that. Or at least he hoped that when the man had plunged the knife into his chest, the thought had at least crossed his mind for a second. That when the man ended his life, he had felt pity for the monster he had no choice in being.

He liked doing what he did. He knew that much. Had enjoyed hurting people as he hurt them. Had been okay with what he was and knew he deserved to be hurt just as badly if not more. He was bad.

But he had always wondered if he could have been something else. Something more.

Yes, it had not been fair, he supposed. Being expected to do the wrong things, being able to only do the wrong things, only doing the wrong things. He hadn’t had a choice had he? That thought had sprung upon him when he had finished disemboweling his fifth victim.

He raised his arms, fingers spread apart, and studied the back of his blood stained hands, as if looking for some specific germ that made his hands do what they did. He then flipped his hands over, palms up, and let his gaze run over the pads of his fingers, before barking in laughter at his stupid train of thoughts. It was as if he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t bad when he was.

He knew he made quite a insane if not horrific picture, standing over the man’s body, hands upheld with droplets of blood running down them and dripping off – splats! as they hit his body, looking as if he was ready to catch whatever punishment doled out for his sin. Had any stumbled upon this image he was sure they would have either fainted dead away or run away screaming.

He laughed harder.

And then he cried.

He wondered that thought a lot. Following that day, after everything decision he made and every action he did, he always wondered. Had he ever truly had a choice, an option to be different? It never left his mind.

And now, choking on his own blood, he knew three things for sure. One, he was evil. Two, he deserved this. And Three, he had never had a chance.

For every hero needs a villain and he had come up with the short end of the straw.


Once upon a time there lived a boy who was very mean to everyone. He was what was called a bully. He didn’t necessarily enjoy being a bully, but it was what he was, it kept everyone away from him, and it was what seemed normal to him. After all, if his father could hit people and get away with it then so could he.

Life had started out rough for him. He had lost his parents when he was four and had gone through four sets of ‘new’ parents by the time he was seven. At least the fifth set seemed to stick, which was just about what he had asked for. People who would stick, that is.

Anything else would have been asking for too much.

So he considered himself lucky and kept out of his parents’ way. He even had the chance to be a big brother and had liked the feeling of protecting someone even if it had only lasted for a year.

After they put his brother into the ground, everything had changed around the house. His father had started to his mother and he supposed that had she been his real mom he might have tried to stop it somehow. As she wasn’t though, he simply stayed out of his father’s reach and mostly kept to himself.

The boy didn’t have friends but he never needed them. He lived in a neighborhood full of animals that always flocked around him wherever he went. Never mind that the neighbors were never too happy about their pets escaping just to get to the boy who always had bits of food in his pocket, he was happy with his companions and played with them constantly. Until, of course, when in the midst of playing “Chase” he had run a border collie into the road.

It had been an accident, but no one else seemed to look at it like that. The names they called him bounced off the thick shell he had grown and so their intentions to make him repent failed. However, for a boy who’d been abandoned repeatedly and even now had no one who truly cared enough to spend time with him, the heaps of attention he received seeped into his tight shell and wrapped around him like a fuzzy blanket.

Negative, positive, hate, love, it didn’t matter what kind of attention he was getting, only that he was getting it.

So he did it again.

And again.

And again.

And this time, the things they called him and told him were all true. He believed them.

And he relished every second.


She was pretty, even he knew that. He also knew that the no looking, no touching rule applied especially to him.

How could he ever think about soiling something so precious and so white? Get so close, let his presence stain, and overshadow her with his own darkness. No. Not that.

He should have ben content with merely watching her from afar.


She was the first person to tell him he wasn’t bad. He didn’t believe her, of course, but it still had felt nice hearing those words tumble out of her lips. They had briefly soothed him and her smile had offered relief for his restless mind. How could he have stayed away, feeling like that?

She was nice too. And sweet. And smelled like strawberries. Everything imprinted into his senses from the first second he met her. Really, he shouldn’t have dared to become friends. Especially since she wasn’t and would never be his.

And if he’d known what would come after – the result of her kindness and amiability – he’d have steered clear from her path.

But, he supposes, Fate has a reason for doing things.

“Why do you hang out with that creep?” the blonde haired boy asked.

“He’s not a creep.”

“Yes, he is! Haven’t you heard the rumors?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t believe them. He is not an animal killer.”

“Why do you think his family moved here?! Because he kept killing all the neighbors’ pets! He was going to get locked up!” The frantic arm movements accompanied with the loud yells made her roll her eyes.

“It’s not true.”

“And if it is? If it is, what then?”

She shrugged her shoulders, something that always seemed to infuriate the boy. “Then I’d try to figure out why.”

“One of these days, you are going to get yourself killed or something.”

She laughed. “You’re so dramatic, Daniel.”

He glares but says no more. He knows he can’t control who she can and can’t be friends with – it’s not right – but a tiny part wishes he could, at least in this case. He’s worried. He knows the new kid is bad news. He could feel it in his gut and he wonders why Kristen of all people would decide to befriend the boy. Anyone but her and he just wouldn’t care.

Anyone but his girlfriend.


They were going to be late, he realized as he watched her eat her ice cream. The line had taken longer than they’d expected and there was sure to be an angry boyfriend waiting for them at the park.

However, he didn’t mind all that much. She was happily eating her strawberry and he was happily prolonging his meeting the “famous, amazing, and absolutely wonderful Danny”. Which, in all honesty, was perfectly fine with him since he was pretty sure that wasn’t going to end well anyways.

If anything, it was going to be a disaster. He’d probably end up with two black eyes and a split lip, if the rumors about the fighter were true. And he was quite sure they were. But he’d do anything for her. Even meeting someone who very obviously did not like him and who was very talented with his fists.

“Hey, look at that!”

“Hnn?” he grunted, not one for much talking unless he absolutely had to.

“Look!” she pointed and stepped off the sidewalk, hurriedly rushing through the grass, “I think he’s hurt! We have to help him!”

One glimpse at the figure huddled on the ground and his stomach twisted. He lunged forward, arm outstretched, and tried to grasp her hand, wrist, arm, anything – something thick and nauseous bubbling in his belly and choking in his throat; something wasn’t right. Not at all.

His fingertips lightly grazed the skin of her arm and his fingers struggled to wrap themselves around the smaller wrist, his breath hitching when he felt her nimbly slide out of his hand and go running even faster towards the fallen man. “Come back!” He hoarsely cried. “Kristen!”

“Just wait a second! I’m just going to check if he’s okay or not!”

“Kristen, come back here!” He sprinted after her then, realizing she wouldn’t stop even as he kept calling for her to. “Wait! Kris, wait!”

It was no use though. She’d had a head start on him and with her track record on the school team, it was enough for her to reach the man long before him.

Enough for the same man to stop playing wounded and yank the very wrist he had missed.

The glinting silver slashing through the air had him skidding to a stop in shock, completely useless in this situation and yet absorbing every movement, sound, and smell around him. He saw everything and yet nothing as shock faded into white hot anger and the sunlight blurred his vision into a mass of angry reds, greens, and blues.

He struggled to take a deep breath, the summer heat curling around his throat with long grasping fingers. This couldn’t be happening. Not here. Not now. not to her. To him.

Not when he’d just discovered a ray of light in his world.

No! Please, no! The bubble of words straining to pop out of his mouth – silent pleading for time to stop, for a chance at doing this all-over, for a miraculous change of heart or switch of targets. He would have gladly switched places, if only he’d have the chance. Please, please, please, pleasepleaseplease…

But as always, Fate never seemed to listen to him.

No matter how hard he begged.


He hates sleeping.

Only when he is overcome by exhaustion does he rest and even then, he does so very reluctantly. Perhaps this is why it had taken so long for ‘him’ to catch up to him. So long for all of them to capture him and stop him. He was always moving, always working, and so he was always five steps ahead of them.

He hates sleep. For when he sleeps, he dreams. And when he dreams, he dreams of her.

And how the one time he tried to be good, he was bad.

In his nightmares, he holds her tight, his fingers trembling as they spread her blood on her skin – fumble attempts to stop the bleeding somehow. He hears himself pleading for her to stay with him, to tell him what to do.

But, more than anything, even more than helping her, he relives the burning need to chase after the man who had hurt her. to tear him apart, rip him to shreds. How could someone destroy something so pure. Why then? Why her?

He needed answers and so rose from his kneeling position, ready to bolt after the evil man and make him pay.

But, she had clutched his arm, forcing him to stay.

And so he had stayed.

“Kris, what do I do? Oh God, what do I do?!” Warm tears slide down his face, though he hardly feels them.

She whispers through clenched teeth and he vehemently shakes his head. He’s a lot of things. But he’s not that. He can’t do that. He shouldn’t do that.

“Pl-please,” she gasps, “f-for m-me.”

“No!” He says hoarsely, “God, Kris, no!”

“B-be g-good, pl-please..” She shudders in his arms, unable to admit that she’s too afraid for anything else. She’s not strong enough for this kind of pain and she knows there’s no point anyways. There’s no surviving this.

I won’t! Fuck, please Kris! NO!” Takes one look at his devastated face and knows she’s being so cruel – huge guilt in her for manipulating him, having always suspected his need for being something other than the bully and reject, and yet not enough for her to take back her words.

“B-be g-good, pl-please..”

It’s selfish, she knows. But, couldn’t she be selfish? Just this once? Wasn’t that fair?

Sometimes he wakes up then and sometimes the rest plays out in bits and pieces. This he dreads even more. He doesn’t want to be reminded of what he did. Of how those words had affected him so deeply. He wanted to be good. Be good for her. He was tired of being bad and he was worn down from being called a monster.

He hadn’t been a monster though. Not then at least, he thinks.

But he had turned into one the second he listened to her. No chance at all. For in trying so hard to be good, he had failed to see himself become so evil.


“Why?!” He screams. “Why her?! She cared! About you! She trusted you!” His fist lashes out and collides against the fallen man’s temple, one of many blows past simply restraining the killer. “She was the only one who gave a damn and you killed her!”

The man laughs harshly, spitting out blood and collapses onto his back, unable to keep himself up anymore. “Oh, D-Daniel…” The murmur is low enough to send chills down his spine. “You’ve al-always known it was n-never like th-that.”

“What are you talking about?” He hisses, leaning over the fallen man. “I saw you. I was there!”

“Wh-what d-did y-you r-really see, Dan-ny?” The last bit ending in a mocking tone that would have – should have – normally sent him into a fit of rage, if not for the very word striking a usually shielded, very fragile chord locked in the back of his mind and buried deep behind the hurts he’d stored in his heart. Danny.

To hear the pet name come out of the lips of the man who’d ripped his only shot at real happiness away from him, the anguish was almost intolerable. He could still hear her sweet voice whisper in his ears and by all rights he should punch the crumpled man again for daring to even use that name. Daring to desecrate it.

And yet, in some sick way, it made sense. For the two, though never having actually talked for long and for real, they knew each other better than they knew themselves. It was impossible not to. And for that, there was some level of ‘right’ that allowed them to speak to each other as if they were friends and not tortured enemies.


What the fuck.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to shove down the mental turmoil his brain seems to want to be putting him into. Then, feeling the jumbled mess leaving his mind a lot, he opens his eyes, all fierce and heated, and whispers, “I saw you running away from her dead body.

There’s a few seconds of silence, save for faint unsteady breathing, and then there’s a quivering voice shattering his heart and world to pieces all over again.

She asked me to.”

The roar that leaves him is sudden and animalistic and he does the only thing he can do to sate the raw, brutal ache in his chest.


He grabs the knife abandoned on the ground, memento from their earlier fight, and stabs it into the man’s chest in one swift and solid thrust as if trying to plunge all the grief from his chest into the other’s. In one moment, he attempts to transfer everything – memories, feelings, pain – into the villain who had ruined everything.

It’s not true. It can’t be true.

Because if it was, then…

Who had he just killed?

Monster or victim?

Mr. Pew-tin

“Mr. Pew-tin?”


“Mr. Pew-tin?”

Even more silence.

Mr. Pew-tin?

A wadded up copy of the Declaration of Independence bounces off his chest and plops onto his oakwood desk. He contemplates tossing it back, but that would require skills, precision, and dedication – all of which he didn’t have.

“What do you want, Martinez?” He thumps his chest with his fist. “And it better be worth it, I’m very busy.”

“Sir, it’s the Americans. They’re coming.”

“Oh.” He returns his attention to his computer screen, clicking on another video.


A loud boom is heard and he feels something bump his knee. It’s Martinez. “What the devil are you doing, Martinez? Get off the floor!” He starts kicking back and forth.

Instead, Martinez holds tighter and wails, “Mr. Pew-tin! The Americans are coming! You must do something! You must!”

“Get off me! Get off!”

“But, Mr. Pew-tin! It’s your duty! You must save us!”

“Fine! Just let go already!”

Elated and satisfied, Martinez lets go and sits cross-legged on the floor. A giant spider then crawls out from his pocket and makes its way up his stomach, arm, and shoulder, resting under his ear. It waves an appendage at Mr. Pew-tin, who shudders violently, having had a very traumatic experience with crustaceans in the past.

“Put Lawerence away, Martinez.”

Martinez nods. “Go away Larry.”

The spider sighs sadly and begins his journey back down, letting out a soft sob when he reaches the pocket. It always smells like Cheetos in there. But there never are any which is the worst form of torture.

“What are you going to do, Mr. Pew-tin?”

“About the Americans?”


“Set Mr. Plinkett on them.”

Mr. Plinkett?

“Do it.” Insane feminine pleading is heard from his computer and he realizes he has a skype call. He answers it with great reluctance, ignoring Martinez’s grumbling and obscene swearing as he leaves the room to release The Plinkett. “Pew-tin speaking.”

“I hear the Americans are at your borders again. Very bad of a ruler. Not proper etiquette at all.”

“You had the Joos invading your capital last Monday, Aladeen.”

“I fixed that. I sent them to Summer camp. Very fulfilling experience.”

He sneers. “I hear it’s very cold there.”

“Very. But it’s satisfyingly warm enough.”

“They still got past your otter army. Such inadequacy cannot make fun of my situation.”

“But you trained my otters.” A smirk rises on the pale faced man and he shakes his tentacle at Mr. Pew-tin.

Mr. Pew-tin frowns, remembering the ten day struggle. All the creatures had done was eat his country out of goldfish. And not the actual fish kind. “Forget that. That was yesterday.”

“Ah, but your Americans are today. And the Jeps are tomorrow. Have fun, my frenemy.” And with a vulcan wave of a split in two tentacle, Aladeen disappears from sight, leaving his Youtube in place.

He presses play and a bottle of gin is seen floating across Qui-Gon Jinn’s face. “Stupid Phantom Menace,” he giggles to himself.

The Venus Fly Trap Named Carl throws a coke bottle across the room to The Venus Fly Trap Named Karl. He catches it and throws it back. This entertains them for a few hours, until they grow weary of the game. Briefly, they glance at The Human Named Mr. Pew-tin and wonder if he will ever learn to tie his shoes properly. They shake their leaves. Probably not.

They then switch to a can of sprite and resume.


Meanwhile, armed with a camera and toothpick, Mr. Plinkett rides into battle on his trusty iguana, Glenn. He hollers something nasty about George Lucas and charges. The cries of fallen Americans are heard and the deep notes of Talk Dirty To Me start to fade away.

There is no mercy.

When the dust clears and the Sun smiles, the American Greats lie still on the ground. Except for Morgan Freeman who while twitching, recites the 13th Amendment repeatedly. Mr. Plinkett decides to let him be as his words are perversely soothing to Glenn. “Shhh, Glenn, it is over now. You did good.”

Glenn pukes in happiness. It is a job well done.


“Mr. Pew-tin! Mr. Pew-tin! Mr. Pew-tin!” Martinez barges into the room, catching his ruler with his pants down.

Mr. Pew-tin sighs and waddles back to his desk chair. His shirt is unbuttoned as well, but he doesn’t make a move to fix his appearance. He lifts cartons of milk yearly. He is quite muscular and attractive.

“Yes, Martinez?”

Martinez ignores his president’s indecent state – it happens quite often – and informs with much excitement that the Americans are quite not alive.

“Is that so. Well then, I did well.” He takes a sip of his Brisk tea. “Pay Mr. Plinkett his usual wages.”

“Right away, sir.” The door slams shut with a squeak.

Mr. Pew-tin leans back in his chair and grins. He did very well. That was why he still remains in power. With intelligence such as his, no man could dare to compare nor rival. Such was not possible.

His grin widens and he fist pumps the air with much deserved pride and dignity. He then belts out a loud heroic cheer.






So this is my late-ish entry to Matt Black’s awesome blog party, but that’s what happens when you spent the day traveling. Forgive me Mattie? (That just made me grin evily.)

Anyways, if this short story offends in any way – Good. That was the point. Is this not the worst short story that could ever possibly be written? Probably not, but still. It’s horrifically entertaining.

Let’s be glad that I didn’t throw in Olama like I was going to. That could’ve gone really dark, really fast.