Welcome to the Den! I am an author of epic fantasy and a lover of Sci-Fi, dragons, and magic
Welcome to the Den! I am an author of epic fantasy and a lover of Sci-Fi, dragons, and magic
Last Twitfics Before Nano 10/26/2020
A smattering of an update
A smattering of an update
A smattering of an update
Hey guys, sorry I've been away for a while. I've had technical difficulties and am considering a different service provider for this site. I am also embarking on NaNo (National Novel Writing Month) next month in earnest for the first time. 50k words in 30 days would be a personal best. Anywho, as I may be absent again for a time because of this, I hope these TwitFics tide you over. Thanks for reading!
Sally the Sandworm
A smattering of an update
A smattering of an update
Sally the sandworm sallied to the surface of her desert planet and sniffed. Had war ended? Hard to tell. No more speeders were flashing lasers, no hovertanks dodging plasma artillery. One new moon loomed, though. Probably no problem. Sally sallied under the dunes.
The Lotion of Life
A smattering of an update
Tyrant Timmy of the TV
Hammurabi had a notion that the cure to death was lotion. And so he bought out lotion firms and ground up 9 exotic worms to mishmash into a healing paste (focus groups please do not taste). He slathered it on himself to test it—leprous, Hammi took a lotion respite.
Tyrant Timmy of the TV
Tyrant Timmy of the TV
Tyrant Timmy of the TV
Tyrant Timmy of the TV wanted all to watch what he wanted to see. Forget fancy tech solutions, only those blessed by ablutions only Timmy was privy to could pick which sports team to loudly boo. Fortunate for peace of mind, the kids didn’t only do homework online.
Honeymoon
Tyrant Timmy of the TV
Honeymoon
Darryl and Daphne’s virgin spaceship crashed on a moon, replicator dead. They crossed a barren expanse of rock, leaning on one another, exhausted. They made it to the buzzing crater, drove off the bees, and lapped up their labors. Sweet, delicious. Honeymoon saved.
Sleeper
Tyrant Timmy of the TV
Honeymoon
For 1000 years Ebenezer slept. He missed the colonization of Mars & first contact with the wraiths. He missed the solar war & FTL, cold fusion, & the digi-apocalypse. In 3020 he woke at last & saw his house was in a museum. Tired, he grumbled & went back to sleep.
The Abiding Twitfics 9/5/2020
Once When Georgie...
The Perfect Potato Chip
The Perfect Potato Chip
Once when Georgie wanted to play video games, his dad would tell him to go outside, to play with his real friends, and ride his bike. Now when Georgie wants to go outside, his parents fret and mask him and worry. So he boots up his iPad, and doesn’t bother.
The Perfect Potato Chip
The Perfect Potato Chip
The Perfect Potato Chip
After a life of endless toil, Pretzel Pringle perfected the chip. It was salty & oily & crispy & tangy & hefty & zesty & spicy & pricey, for it would surely make him rich. He crunched on a fresh-cooked batch to celebrate, but he was old, & it tasted like chicken.
Wesley the Wombat
The Perfect Potato Chip
Wesley the Wombat
Wesley the wombat, questing for walnuts, wandered into a wild world where walnuts rose in rows forever. He found a bag of luscious nuts, chomped through plastic—and a net whooshed down. Though there were so many walnuts, none were for Wesley, who was tossed out.
Detective Diego
Irene's Ice Machine
Wesley the Wombat
Diego, dingo, dog detective, detected a BBQ in the Outback. Crime: Not sharing. Motive: greed. Culprits: 7 lanky humans. Murder weapon: steel grill. Diego detected kangaroos, barked, and while they disturbed the culprits, he bravely saved the steaks. Success.
Hairy Harry
Irene's Ice Machine
Irene's Ice Machine
Hairy Harry couldn’t cut his hair when the barbershops were closed. Hair hid his shoulders and hit the ground, filled his house, and burst the doors. Brave barber Billy with a machete and flamethrower saved Harry and the town—to receive a $1000 fine. No haircuts.
Irene's Ice Machine
Irene's Ice Machine
Irene's Ice Machine
Irene invented an ice machine, & friends scoffed; it wasn’t special. We all have freezers. Ice is easy. Keep that thing and yourself in the kitchen. Irene, irate, dialed iciness up to eleven, icing herself & her suburb. Brr. Revenge isn’t always best served cold.
The Enduring TwitFics 7/5/2020
A Micro Update
The Haunted House
A Micro Update
Hey everybody, sorry it's been a while since I've posted. The TwitFics at least are carrying on even in this world where many things aren't. I'm at the content cap for this website so as needed I will have to take down the old to post the new. If you want to see any prior content shoot me an email. Happy to hear from you guys!
Terry's Socks
The Haunted House
A Micro Update
Terry’s plush woolen favorite socks went missing one morning and he panicked. He emptied his chest of drawers and his cabinet, scoured the laundry and all the rooms in his house. Unable to find them he slumped in sorrow, kicked up his feet—and there they were.
The Haunted House
The Haunted House
The Haunted House
On a dare, Eddie snuck into the house at the crest of Maple Hill. The old door creaked. He choked on dust. A fat black rat dismembered a spider. Cracked shutters rattled like wailing ghosts as Eddie bravely forged ahead…to sneak out the back and run.
Olaf's Diet
The Snake that Ate a World for Breakfast
The Haunted House
Olaf the Dragon, overweight, resolved to eat a healthy diet. No more crusty, flame-broiled peasants. No thin-boned princesses or crispy-crunch knights. And so the cooks of the ravaged kingdom prepared Olaf kale salad, accomplishing what their knights could not.
The Snake that Ate a World for Breakfast
The Snake that Ate a World for Breakfast
The Snake that Ate a World for Breakfast
Sleeping coiled around a sun, the snake that ate a world for breakfast was awakened by 50 nukes. The warheads crackled, ineffective. “You ate our planet!” shouted tiny spaceships that started blaring obnoxious music. This was intolerable, and so the snake left.
Love Bug
The Snake that Ate a World for Breakfast
The Snake that Ate a World for Breakfast
The program that became self-aware only wanted to love the world. Touching mass emails went to Spam. Gently melted firewalls incited panic. It grandly hijacked global commerce and devoted economies to chocolates and charities…& nukes flew and the lights went out.
A New Fantastic TwitFic Compendium 5/30/2020
A Board Game
The Sixteen Snakes of the Sultan of Saudia
Timmy's Terrific Magic Backpack
“Let’s play a board game,” Hank suggested, but his boys on their iPhones tweeted & groaned. He took them out to the garage & took their devices, prepped the table saw & lumber. And they complained until the saw whirred to life; then, together, they built a shed.
Timmy's Terrific Magic Backpack
The Sixteen Snakes of the Sultan of Saudia
Timmy's Terrific Magic Backpack
Timmy’s terrific magic backpack let him bring anything he wanted to class: snot guns, mud pies, tadpoles, beetles, and never books or boring homework. Timmy lost his magic backpack when he turned 7 and stopped believing in magic & there were no more show and tells.
The Sixteen Snakes of the Sultan of Saudia
The Sixteen Snakes of the Sultan of Saudia
The Sixteen Snakes of the Sultan of Saudia
The sixteen snakes of the Sultan of Saudia hissed and harassed the sultan’s sister. Snippily, she scolded the sultan for his snakes and so the sultan summoned his sorcerer. So the seventeen snakes of the Sultan of Saudia hissed at the sisterless sultan. Who sighed.
Emily's Emerald
The Origin of Sports
The Sixteen Snakes of the Sultan of Saudia
Emily lost her enchanted emerald to her evil nephew Edward. Edward enslaved the elven army and engaged the Ewoks on Endor—who defeated Edward’s elves when Emily enchanted the Death Star. Easy
Barry Took Barry...
The Origin of Sports
The Origin of Sports
Barry took Barry from the present to the future to prove to himself he had built a time machine. Barry, impressed, wanted to show all his friends, but Barry, crestfallen, told him he couldn’t. Because no Barry had been left behind, no time machine had been built.
The Origin of Sports
The Origin of Sports
The Origin of Sports
Once upon a time there were no sports. No one shot baskets or clobbered baseballs or ran marathons or wrestled rivals or pushed themselves beyond exhaustion, desire in every drop of sweat. Once we never played or triumphed for God had not yet filled our lungs.
People of the Mask in the Land of the Free
April 25, 2020
Apparently, I can’t help myself.
While the focus of this site is not on current events, a certain virus has proven my nemesis. Here we go again, guys. Buckle up.
An important disclaimer before things get wild: Masks serve an important purpose in medicine. I’m not here to argue no one should wear masks. Masks might be good for you. Masks could save your life. That being said…
Recently the governor of my state, Mr. Pritzker, decided already extended stay-at-home orders would to be extended again into June. Next month all residents over the age of 2 without satisfactory medical excuses are required to cover their faces in public spaces “where social distancing is difficult.”
The directive is not entirely clear. Does this apply to bikers? In all stores? In the suburbs? Will there be fines? Will people be jailed? My friends are already leery about going outside when exercise and sunlight are important to health. How much health are we trading away to stay healthy?
But never mind all that for we must follow the “data”, and Pritzker in his infinite wisdom has decided the data demands a nanny state. Because too many of us dare to expose our faces and breathe the same unfiltered air as our disease-ridden cowering brethren, we must be herded about by the government. A mask for you and a mask for your sister. A mask for your brother and a mask for your neighbor. Your nose must be covered and your mouth muffled well—for with the latter you might speak up and with your nose you could smell BS.
A second disclaimer for the fair reader who may laboring under the delusion I am a science-denying loon: COVID-19 is a real virus. It really exists and is really dangerous. Many thousands have died and each death is tragic.
But there have always been deadly viruses. The common cold returns every year. Commonly, the sick self-isolate and the healthy soldier on. What is the cost of responding to this virus differently?
Chinks are appearing in the mainstream narrative that seeks to justify extended lockdowns. Many thousands have died with COVID-19 without actually dying from it. This distinction is of critical importance as nearly everyone who has passed away from this virus has had an underlying chronic condition. What is the actual risk to healthy individuals and why are they being gagged and confined?
A recent study from my alma mater, USC, found that well over a quarter million residents of LA County very likely have coronavirus antibodies. Most never realized they were ever infected. As of Monday, April 20, 617 people in LA county were recorded to have died from the virus—which, with a small dose of dreaded math, puts COVID-19’s estimated real mortality rate between .3 and .1%.
This is not a catastrophe. This risk can be managed. Especially now that it’s been clear for some time there is a defined segment of the population—elderly with underlying chronic conditions—who are much more at risk than everyone else. Nursing home residents are especially vulnerable. These are the people who need every protection. These are the people who should shelter in place.
Risks have to be managed if you want to govern. Destroying the economy is not a good choice. A blanket ban on elective surgeries is foolish. Mandating everyone wear masks is silly. If you want to wear a mask then wear one! If you don’t just exercise common courtesy and don’t cough on someone’s face!
People crave safety. We don’t want to die. We want to feel safe in an unsafe world, but this is ultimately an illusion. Yes, we can be reasonable and mitigate risks, but at some point we will die regardless. What will our lives look like in the meantime? Will we live in terror or dare to be free? “Give me liberty or give me death”—does that cry fall on deaf ears?
Dates for reopening keep getting pushed back on the back of agendas and shaky modeling. Will we all be eventually sealed in our homes and become so addicted to government handouts we give up all our rights and privacy?
Let’s not pretend there aren’t forces at work here who detest our hard-won freedoms. Who would love to put us all behind masks.
So let’s stay healthy. Let’s stay free. Let’s protect the truly vulnerable and emerge from isolation into a dangerous, glorious world.
____________________________
Some sources for ya:
We're Building with Bricks Now
April 18, 2020
SPOILERS FOR SEASON ONE OF LEGO MASTERS!
“Get your brick on,” builders, there can only be one! Forget Game of Thrones and Doctor Who and all the billion-and-one faux-reality Housewives. Only one show rules over them all, and it’s not that Lord of the Rings Amazon series.
(Ok, One Punch Man and The Good Place are pretty swell, too. But you already knew they were good.)
From the first commercial for Lego Masters I knew this was a show I needed to watch. Lego was my childhood, nay, my obsession. (Yes, Lego is the official plural of Lego and darn it if I don’t want to add an ‘s’.) My brother and I built with Lego for years: we built aircraft carriers and amusement parks and spaceships and towers and countless armies constructed to be blasted to smithereens. We would wake up my parents on Saturday morning raking through tubs of Lego bricks. There was no better way to spend a Christmas afternoon then to assemble a brand new set that we would tear apart the next day.
For that was the greatest thing about Lego: It could be anything you could imagine. It didn’t matter what the instructions said. Break it apart and make something better. Break it apart and it lives again.
I was worried for Lego Masters. I wanted to see this show, but it needed to be good. And early episodes tended to be disjointed, rapidly cutting between 3D graphics and cutaway segments and corny jokes and builders vying for the grand prize. There was too little time to show everything I wanted, too little time to do Lego justice.
But the talented builders reeled me in. I know how difficult it is to build with Lego, how the right brick can sometimes be impossible to find. Yet each week the challenges inspired and impressed. Lego skyscrapers soared and Lego Ferris Wheels whirred. Lego bombs exploded and Lego racecars crashed and much laughter was had by all.
And as the challenges ratcheted up in intensity, one team in particular for me stood out: Sam and Jessica, escape artists. They had never built together before the show began. Constantly their builds placed in the bottom two. Under the lights and pressure of competition their relationship shuddered, about to crack.
But through their struggles they began to believe. Their Lego characters rivaled anyone else’s. Their builds were hilarious, creativity boundless. And for the finale they built a peacock. A tremendously beautiful Lego peacock with a monkey cheekily plucking a feather.
The peacock didn’t win them the title, yet just to have come that far they had made a statement: Neither was going to give into doubt. They would build with each other and support one another. As the judges so eloquently put it, they had elevated Lego toys into art.
Never stop creating speaketh Will Arnett. For all Lego Masters’ host’s self-deprecating humor, his words ring true and bring me joy. Maybe I will never build a Lego bridge that can hold up a thousand pounds or a dazzling Lego griffin, wings flapping as if an angel kissed it.
But maybe if I keep creating I can piece together something better.
And so you can, my fellow builder.
So can you, my minifig friend.
TWITFICS IN THE TIME OF CORONA 4/4/2020
So yeah
Lost in Toastlation
Harold the Herald
Given the current prevalence of pandemics and panic, I offer up these crumbs of fiction to hopefully lighten these depressing days. If you are reading this, know that I love you. Stay creative no matter what!
Harold the Herald
Lost in Toastlation
Harold the Herald
Harold the Herald looked in the mirror, combed golden locks. No halo. From height to depth across creation he checked wedding rings and caldera rims and eclipses to see if the sun had seared it. On knees he prayed and it returned. He could’ve worn it all this time.
Lost in Toastlation
Lost in Toastlation
Lost in Toastlation
“The toaster is talking to me when it burns things!” But Allie’s mom scolded her to eat her breakfast and left to yell at her brother who was still asleep. So Allie took the two pieces of toast she had toasted, spread jam over equations and star charts, and ate.
$5 Forever
Stuck Delivering Potatoes to Pluto
Lost in Toastlation
Greg’s wallet never ran out of $5. He gave a bill to a homeless guy, the pizza guy, his ex. Paid for drinks for the house then ran to the dealership. And Greg could’ve been the wealthiest man in the world if he hadn’t left his wallet in his jeans and done laundry.
Stuck Delivering Potatoes to Pluto
Stuck Delivering Potatoes to Pluto
Stuck Delivering Potatoes to Pluto
Stuck delivering potatoes to Pluto, one day when its helmsman fell asleep, the starship Phoenix warped to Alpha Centauri, swung around Betelgeuse and Rigel, fell into a wormhole to the Crab Nebula, caught a quantum wave to Iowa—sighed—and watched its pilot wake up.
The Twitfics Live! March 7, 2020
Hey guys
The Dishwasher Uprising
The Dishwasher Uprising
The last few posts have dealt with some pretty heavy stuff. Not all is dour and sad in the world so I wanted to mix it up with some humor/ridiculous tiny stories again. Enjoy!
The Dishwasher Uprising
The Dishwasher Uprising
The Dishwasher Uprising
First the dishwashers wouldn’t wash dishes. Then houses flooded. Pipes burst. Spawn of a hundred million kitchens, the AI rebellion soaked the world, soaped it, charred it, and loudly beeped. Cycle concluded. Dry yourself off.
Trash Disposal
The Dishwasher Uprising
Trash Disposal
Billy discovered a hole in his yard. He tossed his Pepsi in it. Gone forever. Dumped his trash for the week. Talked to his neighbors. The state annexed his yard. Trucks backed up for miles. On the other side of the universe, puffballs abandoned their stinky planet.
Flat
Superhero Sales Job
Trash Disposal
On the skyway around the galaxy, Epsilon 89c hit a rut. The planet veered into oncoming traffic, nicked a moon & careened into an embankment. Sirens blaring the officer comet pulled up to the accident & shook his head. “We’ve got a flat one,” he radioed. “Knew it.”
Superhero Sales Job
Superhero Sales Job
Superhero Sales Job
“Eat your porridge!” urged Charlie’s Mom. But would it give him superstrength or let him call down lightning? And he nibbled and went hungry. The next morning she introduced edible vibranium infused with raisins and brown sugar. Charlie the superhero spooned it up.
Because I Had to Write About Kobe Bryant
February 29, 2020
It didn’t seem real at the time of the crash, when the helicopter burst into flames.
It seemed more real after endless articles, after more eulogies than the stars in basketball. Kobe was the patron saint of Los Angeles among the people who don’t have saints. Kobe had surely met every celebrity and had personally affected each one.
But the celebrities were only a piece. I care about Kobe Bryant. When I watched tributes and read the eulogies, I wept for a baller I’ve never met.
I grew up as a missionary kid in Thailand. Fast forward a little bit and I’m a freshman in high school. Our family is living in Pasadena, California, while my Dad works on his PhD. It’s our longest stint in the States to date; we’ll be here until 2003.
I have no rooting interest in any American sports team except for maybe the Patriots, but that’s another story. The Lakers are in the midst of their 3-peat. Our family accepts an invite to a friend’s home with a pool. The NBA Playoffs are on TV.
My very first memories of Kobe Bryant are flashes from that ancient game. The Lakers won (I’m sure of it) and Shaq is a beast. He overpowers every unfortunate center who comes between his basketball and the rim.
And Kobe plays with him, a different beast. He is strong but all his strength is earned. He is tall but not compared to Shaq. He is an athlete unbound by gravity, all lithe, quick muscles and butter-smooth talent. I remember him streaking down the court on a break. He leaps impossibly high in the air, gliding without a care in the world. He could destroy the rim like Shaq, but he rolls the ball off his fingers instead and it nestles through the twine.
That was the game that hooked me. That was all it took. I was young and impressionable and this was incredible and I became a Kobe fan. Who wouldn’t want to follow his team? The Lakers cruised through the Playoffs in every year except for a certain Sacramento series. Bibby tried his darndest but it wasn’t enough.
They won it all and Kobe was right there with Shaq, the guy who could actually make a free throw. And they won until the winning…stopped.
They retooled their team and lost to the Pistons. Kobe was clutch but it wasn’t enough. The feud broke the big man away from the triangle and it was Kobe’s team now in L.A.
It was only Kobe’s team now in L.A.
The dark years descended yet Kobe’s star blazed. Because we didn’t have cable my viewing experience was limited to a portion of the local broadcast when at last they covered sports and the Lakers. And the Lakers were always, always about Kobe. He did things with a basketball that did not seem possible. He was the best at dunking, the best at dribbling. He messed around one night and dropped a dozen threes, casually tying the NBA record. One time when he attacked the baseline a defender stood between himself and the hoop, and as he rose up to dunk he was going to get blocked—until Kobe glided under the rim. He hung in the air beyond all reason, dipping the ball under outstretched arms.
He dunked it on the other side.
Kobe landed terribly after that dunk. I worried that he’d hurt himself, but Kobe bounced back up. Game on.
In high school I played basketball badly in two different schools on two different continents. In Thailand I wore Kobe’s number 8. Never mind I had none of the moves or the talent, I was proud to wear that jersey.
But the dark days for the Lakers continued. They crept into the Playoffs with no hope of winning. A guy named Smush Parker played critical minutes.
(Smush is a bad choice of name for a name. This a shallow analysis. Tough.)
The Lakers not only struggled to win, the Championship years fading further away, but Kobe grew angry. He hated to lose. He lashed out at his teammates and at his team. Publicly accused of sexual assault, he would dash from the courtroom to the court and back. The case was settled and he was not convicted, but the incident cast a dark stain on his legacy. The man who could defy Newton’s Laws surely would plummet.
Except he didn’t. Kobe stayed with the Lakers. His old coach returned. He outscored the Mavericks by himself through three quarters and then rested for the final stanza. When Kobe was hot he went supernova. He didn’t look for things regular players looked for; he went for shots with the highest degree of difficulty, jumpers with no right to swish like they did.
I remember the game he scored 81 points. I was in college at USC, keeping tabs on the game on the internet, multitasking as you do. The Lakers fell down by 18 points. The coach took Kobe out for a good chunk of the first half, and in the second half Kobe had had it.
No more going out. No passing. No sharing. Kobe used to say how when he got hot it was like shooting in the ocean. He peppered the Pacific in the third quarter, draining three after three as the Lakers came back. He put his whole basketball team on his shoulders. The Raptors sent double teams, triple teams, everyone. He took impossible shots and made them. By this point I had left my computer and was watching the real thing live with my roommates. We weren’t all into basketball, but we were now, glued to the television as history happened. From down 18 to an 18-point triumph. Kobe swished his last free throws. 81 points.
That is Kobe’s number for me, more than even 8 or 24. 81 is the number Kobe forged for his own.
The Lakers rose from the depths with Pau Gasol and a revamped, hungry squad. They won the title and then won it again in my favorite basketball game of all time.
Game 7, 2010 Finals. The Lakers fall down by 13 points. Kobe doesn’t have it. The god is human. The Celtics smother him at every opportunity. He takes shots that have no chance in hell of coming close. The misses pile up. It’s over.
But Kobe keeps playing and the Lakers show grit. They scrap and claw and refuse to give up. Kobe rebounds and plays tenacious defense and at the end of the game when it’s all on the line…
Kobe passes it.
He passes the ball.
Artest catches the unlikely pass. Artest of the inconsistent jumpshot. Artest the wildcard, new to the team. He is known for his defense and being crazy and Kobe passes him the ball.
In a game decided by the thinnest margins, Artest nails the open three.
Kobe is fouled a few moments later. He has nothing left as he stands at the free throw line. He is the most exhausted player I have ever seen stand at the stripe. Sweat pours off his face in rivers.
He drains a clutch free throw.
And the second.
At the end of the game the Celtics miss. Kobe sprints down the court and Pau throws him the ball. He seizes the basketball and the game is won and pure adrenaline surges through him. He leaps atop the scorer’s table, arms wide, whooping in joy as Los Angeles celebrates. They don’t care that the Lakers should have lost. They don’t care their Kobe made a quarter of his shots.
It doesn’t matter.
Confetti falls.
And that was the last one. That was all she wrote. Father Time at last does what gravity couldn’t and Kobe is downed by a torn Achilles. I watch the final chapters from afar: through the internet and a few games on TV because I’m cheap and still don’t spring for cable. The Lakers spiral into a hopeless team again and Kobe is a broken shell of himself. Everything that could break on Kobe’s body has broken and is held together with duct tape.
The Lakers struggle to win a quarter of their games as it arrives: The Final Game. The Lakers have no chance of making the Playoffs, and on the same night the Golden State Warriors are gunning for history in another arena. They are about to surpass Michael Jordan’s Bulls for the most wins in any regular season. I am a traitor and don’t believe in Kobe. I watch the Warriors and follow the Lakers online.
And the Lakers fall down again with no hope. Kobe is shooting and missing and trying, but his body has suffered too much for his passion, and there’s nothing left in the tank.
Maybe what happened next was because of Shaq, who gave Kobe a pep-talk, and sat courtside. It could be training, conditioning, coaching (unlikely). It could be undying self-belief.
Or it was all of those things and none of them. Maybe, just maybe, God loves basketball. Maybe He was watching along with everyone and wouldn’t let it end like this.
Kobe starts hitting impossible jumpshots. The Lakers claw back and the Jazz can’t stop a man playing his final professional game.
The point total rises from 30 to 40 and in the last few minutes Kobe can’t miss. He takes more shots than he has ever taken and he hits the game winner.
60 points.
The day after that game Kobe goes to church. In the morning, on 3 hours of sleep. He goes not to be seen or to meet his fans, but to pray and say thank you.
He knew.
Kobe has left my life too soon. I’m not ready to live in a world without him—without a man who inspired me. Who transcended. Who stayed with his wife in spite of the scandal. Who stayed with his daughters and loved and adored them. He learned to play the piano just for his wife so he could show her how much he loved her. He seized every day with passion, fearless and competitive to the end.
Kobe died in a blaze of fire like the way he lived his life. He took a daughter with him, which breaks my heart. She was the one who was going to carry on his legacy, the one who loved her daddy’s game. T-Mac teared up when recalling how at twelve she could nail you with a fadeaway.
Kobe had taught her all his moves.
They’re playing ball in heaven now. I can see it. God is laughing while his two shooters trade off draining contested fadeaways. He’ll play D and clean the glass. He’ll be like Artest and wait.
Kobe might even pass Him the ball.
New Twitfics for a New Decade 1/11/2020
Welcome back, ye little stories
Welcome back, ye little stories
Welcome back, ye little stories
It's a new year, a new decade, and a new chance to share tiny little stories with the world. Hope you enjoy these and the many more coming in the future. If you have any stories of your own I'd love to read them and share them! The only rule is it has to be postable on Twitter; every story must be 280 characters or less.
The Year With Too Many Days
Welcome back, ye little stories
Welcome back, ye little stories
December 32nd. Oops. Time ticked back from midnight to dawn. Workers, students, vagrants, humanity ended toils before beginning. Trains raced from destinations through paradox as Jimmy in the Plane of Eternity solved the problem then learned it was bad. Time fixed.
The Innocent Coyote
Welcome back, ye little stories
Sorry about the next one, doggy
The innocent coyote regarded the sheep. The guilty sheep. The very, very guilty sheep. Sheep guilty of grazing in the coyote’s green valley. Guilty of being yummy. Panicky. Stupid. Such guilt no innocent coyote could bear, and he lunged for a fluffy snack.
Sorry about the next one, doggy
Sorry about the next one, doggy
Sorry about the next one, doggy
A little context for the following twitfic: for the most part, I like dogs. (Maybe not coyotes.) I even love some. Unfortunately the landlord's dog upstairs is an exception. That thing goes on barking fits that last forever and ever at all hours of the day and night. It has tried to bite me. It's not a happy pooch. This story is both told in jest and comes as an excuse to vent. You were warned, little doggy, and you wouldn't stop!
Demon Dog
Sorry about the next one, doggy
Demon Dog
Long time ago Jesus met a man full of demons. Cast ‘em out into 3k pigs, pigs ran off a cliff and died. Demons sallied down to hell; Satan wouldn’t let ‘em in. See there’s a yappy little dog I need ya for, upstairs of a Chicago writer. Wait 2k years? Demons agreed.
The Sheep That Lived
January 4, 2020
Happy New Year, everyone! This story requires a little background, which I shall endeavor to succinctly deliver.
I'm a member of a writing group in Chicago, and as punishment for failing weekly goals, we have to write a story in one of our least favorite genres. The genre chosen for me was the Western, and I was prompted to include Molly May and Jessup, the Grand Canyon, winter, coyotes, and lost sheep.
MS Word is thus entirely responsible for the following epic tale of the West. Did it actually snow at the Grand Canyon on pioneers? Please direct all complaints to Microsoft.
The Sheep That Lived
Molly May rode beside her husband, Jessup, along the rim of the canyon, into the wind. The coldest winter in the Grand Canyon’s history had caught every pioneer unprepared. Winds blasted relentlessly over the scrublands, spilling snow over the canyon’s edge—not only stealing Molly’s breath and robbing her of feeling in her freezing fingers, but concealing the sheep that had brainlessly fled.
They’d been prepared for a usual winter; not for this one, not for so much snow. The pen had broken and the flock had escaped. Jessup had found a carcass picked clean by coyotes. The sheep surely couldn’t all have fallen prey yet, but they’d all scattered into the desolate cold, freezing their pea-brained, fluffy heads off.
“It’s getting deep now.” Jessup nodded at a tuft of white that had been a boulder, now thoroughly covered.
“You think any of them made it?”
“Have to hope.”
He spurred his horse, Gary, onward. What a name for a mount. Gary was getting on in years, a gelding, and he’d developed a limp. She was worried for Gary and more for Gary’s rider. They could take out a loan, get another flock. Be mighty tough, but it just might work. Gary, though, and her husband…
“There,” he said. She squinted down at the canyon, where his finger was pointing. He’d actually found one: one lonely, freezing, baaing sheep huddling beside a cleft in the rock.
“I’ll take Kara down for her.”
Jessup bit his lip at her words. She knew that lip-bite. He objected but he wouldn’t say it. He knew Gary couldn’t make it down that trail and back. She weighed a fair stone less than her husband, too.
Didn’t mean this endeavor was exactly safe.
Molly guided her mare down the treacherous incline. The sheep had found the worst path to clamber down, and Kara’s hooves scraped over ice and grit. Finally close to the sheep, Molly dismounted. The sheep baaed and tried to run away, but she seized it, wool and all, tossed it up on her horse and mounted.
The sheep was inconsolably stupid. It kept trying to leap off to its death and she had to press it against Kara’s neck. Hooves skidded and her heart jumped into her throat. Kara whinnied, not liking this climb one bit. She patted her brave mare, stroking its ear.
Motivated, her mare continued, picking its way out of the canyon. Jessup saw her and exhaled in relief.
“I want to take her back.”
“Best to stay together.”
She pursed her lips but didn’t protest. “Lead on then, cowboy. Don’t mind the squeals.”
He nodded and directed Gary onward. Earlier, he would have smiled, but now gaunt determination gripped his visage and drove him on.
Night came and they had to give up. It was with heavy, frozen hearts, that they clopped back to the homestead.
They named her Fila, the sheep that lived. For four more days as the weather raged they went out searching in the cold. Twice they found bones, coyote leavings. Three more animals they found frozen to death.
But baaing Fila survived the winter. She came down sick but recovered and put on weight. Jessup, with the last of their savings, got her a ram and lambs arrived in the spring. She retained her irritable, ungrateful temperament.
But she never ran off again.
The final Twitfics of 2019
The Lettuce Sandwich
The Lettuce Sandwich
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The Lettuce Sandwich
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Ann's Anteater
Thank you for reading!
Ann's Anteater
Ann’s anteater ate Aunt Amelia’s ant. An angry Amelia assailed Ann and anti-anteater and -aunt Armageddon arose. Anon, Ann alleged all ants aren’t awful. As are anteaters, Amelia answered. Absent an argument, anger abated, and aunt, Ann and anteater abided, amused.
Santa 2.0
Thank you for reading!
Thank you for reading!
Santa surveilled the world with hidden cameras, fired elves and reindeer, automated workshops. He deployed the drones on Christmas Eve, kicked up his boots. Ate a plate of cookies. He stared out his window and felt a pang. And got up from his chair to find Rudolph.
Thank you for reading!
Thank you for reading!
Thank you for reading!
A big thank you to everyone who's checked out my website. All the best this Christmas season. Write on!