Sep 30 2009

Fictionlet

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“OOOOOOH Lord, it’s hard to be humble,” sang Greg loudly and badly, “when yer perfikt in EEEEEEEv-er-eeee way!”

“Oh God,” snarled Brigid. “Please. Seriously. Stop.”

Greg frowned. “Now what?”

“Please. You, perfect in every way? Where do you come up with these things?”

“Neither am I a rambler, a gambler, and a long way from home,” said Greg, “but that wouldn’t stop me from singing about it. This may come as a surprise to you, my young prune, but I sing because I enjoy singing, not because I’m trying to send coded messages to the world.”

“You don’t really expect me to believe you enjoy singing bad country music, do you?”

“There’s an interesting paradox there; what would you consider good country music?”

“Johnny Cash and Vaughn Monroe,” Brigid said without hesitation.

“Oooh! Good choices. How about Buck Owens and Roy Clark?”

“Are you trying to make me shoot you?”

“I guess that’s a ‘no,’ then. But however you may feel about Hee-Haw, Roy Clark has some pretty amazing guitar chops.”

“Like I care about amazing guitar chops,” said Brigid.

“Actually, ‘The Amazing Guitar Chops’ would be a good name for a ramblin’ country band,” Greg said.

“You are trying to make me shoot you,” said Brigid. “I’m leaving before I get arrested.”

Greg was singing “Momma Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys” before she reached her room.

-The Gneech

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Sep 25 2009

Fictionlet

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“Walk without rhythm,” chanted Greg, punctuating each word with a wag of his finger, “and it won’t. attract. the worm.” He struck a dramatic pose and chanted again, “Walk without rhythm, and it won’t! Attract! The worm!” Striking a still more dramatic pose, he added, “Walk without rhythm–!”

“Why would I want to attract a worm, anyway?” said Brigid. “That’s stupid.”

Greg went back to his regular posture. “You’ll never learn,” he said.

“Feh,” said Brigid. “The only reason you like that song is ’cause you think it’s about Dune.”

Greg shrugged. “Speaking of which, I wonder if your name is a killing word?”

-The Gneech

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Sep 18 2009

Fictionlet

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Uncle Bob shook his head. “I’m worried about you, my boy. Worried! All you ever do is sit around this bourgeois apartment you’ve set up for yourself, clacking away at the keyboard, taking abuse from that harridan. You need, in short, to get a life.”

Greg shook his head. “I have a life, thank you, and one that suits me nicely. I’m a natural-born keyboard clacker.”

“Balls!” said Uncle Bob. “You’re too young spend your life sitting on your butt. Now, as your Godfather and brother to the lovely lady who gave you life, I feel responsible for you, and it’s my duty to see that you get out there and experience the grand tapestry of life.”

“You? Responsible?”

“Don’t sound so dubious, you little brat! I’ve had a long and rich life, and I know whereof I speak.”

Greg pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. “You spent the ’70s riding in the back of a van with a band called ‘Fab Rick and the Softeners’.”

“Exactly! We had adventures, my boy. Adventures!”

“Like being held for ten days in a county jail on possession charges?” Greg said. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Who told you about that?”

“That would be the lovely lady who gave me life you mentioned earlier,” Greg said. “Mother was very fond of you, Uncle Bob, but she had no illusions about you, either.”

“Well, it wasn’t my marijuana anyway,” said Bob. “I was an innocent bystander, and that deputy had it in for us from the start.”

“Don’t they all?” said Greg, and turned back to his keyboard.

-The Gneech

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Sep 15 2009

Fictionlet

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Brigid: What would you call a story about us in 140 characters or less?

Greg: A Fictiontwit.

Brigid: I hate you.

-The Gneech

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