Updated from 2011-2021 with original writing and musings. Entries included "Ten Word Tales" (Every day), "Poet Corner" (Every weeknight), "Freeform Fridays" (Every Friday), and "Storyteller" (Every Saturday).
Friday's Ten Word Tales: Thanksgiving Leftovers
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Thanksgiving Leftovers
by Belinda Roddie
Turkey sandwiches. All the turkey sandwiches. Bring me turkey sandwiches!
Guuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhh I can't tonight, you guys. I just can't. Just so much change and decisions I didn't want to make but had to and uncertainty and aaaaagggghhhh And everything was so nicely organized and tidy, too! Life, everyone! Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.
by Belinda Roddie Though it had been amusing at first, the mounted deer head's constant quoting of memes was beginning to wear on us. So was the bear skin rug's persistent singing of Parry Gripp jingles. So Ronald took out his shotgun and fired two direct shots in between the deer's eyes before sticking lead between the bear's teeth. When the distant din of shells on wood had subsided, we were greeted with the "Nom nom nom" song. "Ron," I said, "they're already dead." Groaning, Ronald placed his gun aside and pulled out the bottle of Jack Daniels from the cupboard. As he poured him and me two glasses, he shut out the incessant LOLCats references emitting from the bullet-riddled deer head's mouth. He told me he knew he shouldn't have left the laptop open for so long last night, but he had been rather busy "playing checkers" with his girlfriend. I didn't know why he had to be specific with his girlfriend, bu...
by Belinda Roddie "I'll fucking kill you!" He's smashing his fist into tables, sending splinters into the air. He's searching for the girl with bushy eyebrows and short hair. He's looking for the "she-man." "I'll kill you!" She stands there quietly, calmly. One hand clasping the porcelain wrist. The girlfriend shakes but holds on tight. Her fingers stroke the leather jacket. "I'll - " He stops with a hole in his chest. He drops. Dust clears. All calm. An old cowboy lowers a hidden handgun. Skeletal shells hollow on the floor. He lets the smoke rile the tips of his wispy beard. There is quiet in the bar. Quiet down the street. Quiet for the girl holding her love against her shoulder. The girl who wants to be a man holds her back. The cowboy tips his hat and calls her, "Sir." A very polite smile. He lets them walk out quietly, somberly. Their footprints do not track the blood. The sirens begin ...
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