Pastries to the Rescue! (a very short story)

I’m like a broken clock, right twice a day.  Unfortunately, this was not one of them.  How did I know?  The man’s fist changing the direction my chin had been pointing mere moments earlier was my first hint.  Luckily my body is that of a trained warrior.  Well one that had way too much vodka to drink, hadn’t seen combat in the last twelve years and spent half of that time eating fancy buttery French pastries for a living.

At least gravity didn’t fail me.  I collapsed to Mother Earth’s embrace.  I must have offended her as well since her arms were so hard and cold.  I wanted to mourn this decline in our relationship when the aforementioned man decided to kick me in the gut.  That was his big mistake.  I had him right where I wanted him.  I folded myself around that foot and introduced the caught appendage to the regurgitated contents of my lunch, which included an egg sandwich encased in a wonderfully flaky croissant dosed with a lemony hollandaise.  It was so good going down, but not so much coming back the other way.

Still, that was enough to make the man yank his foot out and leave me alone.  As I laid there in my own stomach juices I wondered how this could get worse.  Then I snuffled.

Man, stomach acid and nostrils just don’t mix.

 

 

Image: lecremedelacrumb.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/04/baked-croissant-breakfast-sandwiches-103.jpg

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Yelling (an acrostic poem)

You just can’t make this stuff up

Every day there are more and more idiots out there

Living idiotic lives just to piss me off

Leaving me wanting to scream

I realize this may seem offensive

Now that I utter these words aloud

Give me a break, I know I am an idiot for someone else, so there!

 

Image: ak4.picdn.net/shutterstock/videos/26407424/thumb/12.jpg

Darlings (a 50 word story)

A lot of writing advice connotes I should be willing to kill my darlings.  Okay, they were right.  It made my writing more gritty and realistic.  The problem now isn’t how to make what I put on the page more lifelike, but where am I going to bury the bodies?

 

Image: uberscribbler.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/4538638273_433x451.jpg?w=500

Toast (an acrostic poem)

Too much time had passed by the time he got to the scene

Obviously there was nothing left that could be salvaged

At best the remaining carbon could still be dated in like forty thousand years

Still he wanted to be able to reconstruct the past

Then the bread wouldn’t be burnt.

 

Image: pngimg.com/uploads/toaster/toaster_PNG11.png

Clock (an acrostic poem)

Counting the seconds until this ordeal is over

Listening to the bits of sand fall from the virtual hourglass in my mind

Oblivious to the alarms screaming to do something

Can’t take much more of this for my bum ticker

Killing time was never my thing

 

Image: i2.wp.com/www.stridentconservative.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/Broken-clock.jpg