Posts Tagged ‘fictionlet’
Fictionlet
“Oh, no,” said Greg. “I can’t believe it.”
“What?” said Brigid.
“Look at the seating arrangements. I’m going to be wedged between Treville and Uncle Bob for the whole bloody reception!”
“It’s only a couple of hours,” said Brigid.
“Ugh,” said Greg. “Just shoot me.”
“I thought you’d never ask!” said Brigid, producing a 9mm automatic from her coat pocket.
“What?” Greg managed to say, before she shot him dead on the spot.
THE END
Fictionlet
Brigid pulled herself slowly out into the living room; it was another rough morning, which was unfortunately not usual. Out in the kitchen, Greg was singing over his breakfast, which was also unfortunately not unusual. What Greg was singing, on the other hand, took a few seconds for Brigid to process.
He was singing in a lilty, wavering, ever-so-slightly flat falsetto, drawing out the high notes in a way that suggested a sensitive love song. That in itself was different from his usual playlist, but when combined with the lyrics, it set off a bomb in Brigid’s brain.
“She the kind of giiiiiiiirl,” Greg sang, “you don’t take home to moooother!”
“What?” said Brigid.
“The giiiirl’s all right, she’s all right with meeeeeeeeeeee!” Greg sang, as he stirred his eggs.
“Please tell me you aren’t…” said Brigid.
“She’s a suuuuuuper freak, a su-huper freeeee-heeeeak! She’s suuuuper freaky…” Greg sang, buttering his toast.
“You are,” said Brigid, unable to escape the cold truth. “You’re singing ‘Super Freak’ in the style of Cold Play.”
“She will neeee-heeever let your spirits dooooown, once you geeeet her off the streee-heeet,” Greg sang, and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“I’m not sure who should be more offended, Rick James or Chris Martin.”
He glanced over at her, raised one eyebrow, then dug out a fork and knife. “Blow Danny!” he added, and commenced to chow down.
Brigid pointed at the knife block on the counter. “There’s a perfectly serviceable set of weapons right there,” she said. “No jury would convict me.”
“There’s sausage and egg left for you on the stove,” Greg replied.
She stared at him for a long second, blinking painfully. “Fine,” she said. “You live this time.”
“I feel strangely like Scheherazade sometimes,” Greg said, and went back to his breakfast.
-The Gneech
Fictionlet
Brigid scowled at her folded-up newspaper. “You know what a ‘fag hag’ is, right?” she said.
“Sorry, what?” said Greg.
“A fag hag.”
Greg shifted uncomfortably. “Well, er, yes. It’s not a term I would throw about in such a reckless manner, but I am familiar with the concept. What prompted the question?”
“I was just wondering, what would the reverse of that be?”
“The reverse? A ‘gah gaf’?”
“No, I mean, what would you call a straight man who always wanted to hang around with lesbians?”
“Uh…” said Greg.
“I know, it’s a poser. How about ‘dyke dude’?”
“I am hereby recusing myself from this conversation immediately,” Greg said, scooping Ozymandias up from his lap and heading for the hall. “There’s nothing I can say here that won’t get me into big, big trouble.”
“And you call yourself a linguaphile,” called Brigid. “You should be interested in this stuff!”
“I prefer the term ‘word nerd,’” he said, and was gone.
-The Gneech
Fictionlet
“Ralph Bellamy,” said Greg.
“Hmm?” said Brigid.
“And for that matter, Don Ameche,” said Greg.
“Okay, so now we’ve got Ralph Bellamy and Don Ameche,” said Brigid. “What about them?”
“They were great,” said Greg.
“Yeah, I suppose they were.”
“A couple of real class acts. Classics.”
“True,” said Brigid. “Very true.”
“They were great in Coming to America.”
Brigid blinked. “Not where I thought you were going with this,” she said.
“What giant talents.”
“Hold on,” said Brigid. “They were barely in Coming to America. It was just a shout-out to Trading Places. They were in Coming to America for all of fifteen seconds!”
“Yeah,” said Greg, “but what a fifteen seconds it was.”
“You just sit around thinking this shit up, don’t you?” said Brigid.
“You know what they say, there are no small parts, just small actors.”
“Your brain is a small part.”
-The Gneech
Fictionlet
“You know what I hate?” said Greg. “I hate it when you’re talking about one thing, but the person you’re talking to thinks you’re talking about something else, and they get all upset about what they think you said about that thing, but you were really talking about the other thing and would completely agree with you about that thing.”
“Uh,” said Brigid.
“And so then they’re all upset, and then you get all upset because you can’t figure out why they’re upset and suddenly you’re having this giant argument because they misunderstood you but you don’t know that and so the two of you go ’round in circles getting more and more confused and more and more upset.”
Brigid blinked.
Greg waved his arms, working himself into a frenzy. “And then you eventually figure out that the two of you were talking about two different things and you can totally see why they might think you were talking about the other thing even though it never even occurred to you that what you were actually talking about could be taken to be about that other thing; but of course by then the damage is done and you’re both mad at each other and your whole friendship is gone out the window. I hate that!”
“Yeah?” said Brigid. “I hate it when people try to complain about something that’s happened to them but are all coy about it and couch it in generalized terms instead of specifically referencing what the hell they’re talking about.”
Greg nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “That sucks too.”
-The Gneech
Fictionlet
Greg stared hard at his cheese-on-a-cracker, wishing that Brigid had come to the party this time. Treville, undeterred, said, “Okay, Mister Intellectual, I’ve got one that even you will like.”
“Oh yes?” said Greg.
“What did Diogenes do when he met a man who admitted to having a three-inch wiener?”
Greg rolled his eyes. “He put out his lamp and went home.”
Treville looked disappointed. “Already heard that one, huh?”
“No,” said Greg. “It was just painfully obvious. It takes more than an obscure reference to make a joke intellectual, you know.”
“Feh,” said Treville. “You’re just an elitist.”
“Not at all!” said Greg. “I’m an anti-vulgarist. It’s an important distinction.”
-The Gneech
