Short Stories and Stuff
Well, I thought I'd give a little experiment here. A short story I wrote for a contest, tell me what you think.
***
In Pigwell, time is not measured by days or weeks by the number of eighteen wheelers that drive past my house. But I wasn’t in Pigwell anymore. I was in Boise…no shoes, no money, and no nothing. It’s not that I was in a rough town. Judas Friggin’ Priest, I was in Pigwell: Part Two, a place so boring that watching paint dry was an actual town event. Planning to hitchhike to Minnesota had sounded like a fun idea when I had begun, but it became so lackluster when I started to get picked up by lonely truckers who wanted more than just my company, if you know what I mean.
Of course you know what I mean.
I started off with about two hundred dollars worth of emergency money and visions of Minnesota dancing in my head. Why Minnesota? Well, I met this girl Juliana online and we hit it off real well. I mean, really well. I had sifted through millions and millions (that’s no exaggeration) of girls online. There were all the same; acronyms aplenty and brightly different colored texts and font combinations that made me want to puke.
Juliana stuck out. She used Times New Roman, size twelve in a midnight blue color. She capitalized when necessary, punctuated and used bold and italics rather than caps lock to emphasize certain words or phrases. She always put up an away message when left the computer, and never, ever used the acronym for “laughing out loud”. I was in love, and I hadn’t even seen this girl.
Over the course of our conversations I found out there was more to like than just great grammar. She was smart, possibly the first girl I had met that was smarter than me, and was well-versed in fandom I didn’t even dare dabble in. I knew Alan Moore’s Watchmen, I mean, I knew of it. I even tried to read it once, I think, but I got lost somewhere between Rorasc...Rosca…see, I don’t even know what his name was. When I found out she possessed a bootleg copy of the Star Wars Holiday Special that was the end. The search was over. I was in love.
So I had to find her. I knew from talking to her she live in St. Paul, Minnesota. We had exchanged phone numbers and pictures. Jules wasn’t stunning in the traditional sense, but I liked what I saw. She was kind of short, a little on the chubby side, but hey, I’m no Bill Phillips myself. I liked her thick-rimmed glasses and the way she snorted when she laughed. Discovering her birthday was November 25, I figured what better present for her than me.
This is before I knew the terrors of hitchhiking.
Ok, not terrors really. I was first picked up by a rather crabby old couple who smelled suspiciously like cabbage. Not that cabbage is such a suspicious smell, but nonetheless, it was the vegetable they smelled like. The old woman continuously ranted about the young men and women of today did nothing but have sex and smoke weed. I tried to mention all the young people making significant changes in the world. Of course, the fact that she called weed “dope” sent me in fits of giggles.
They dropped me off in…actually; I’m not sure where they dropped me off. The next guy who picked up reeked like marijuana, and I had to succumb. That old lady going on and on about the horrors and dangers of cannabis made me want it that much more. I rocked the cheeba in his beat up Pinto as he went on government conspiracies to inflict us with diseases that made us pump money into the corporations that truly controlled America. It seemed as though this guy had all his conspiracy theories conveniently rolled up into one neat little package. This was odd, because the only thing the guy seemed to wrap tight were his joints. Oh well, he dropped me off at a gas station in God-knows-where and this weird looking kid picked me up.
He wasn’t really a kid; he was a full grown man. And he was driving a truck. One of those big rigs so big you swear it was manufactured for Andre the Giant to drive. He had an eye missing and his name was Ralph, and I probably should’ve stated that in reverse order. Whatever, it’s too late now. But he was a surefire son of a gun who claimed to be a son of the sun, which would technically make him a cowboy. Of course, seeing as how he drove a truck, I barely saw the connection. Except that he hauled around prime rib cuts. This was kind of like herding cattle.
Kind of.
Apparently, Ralph had been having some issues in his life. His wife had divorced him, his son wanted a sex change operation, his dog had been run over by a pick-up truck, he’d ran out of clean underwear three weeks prior, and to top it all off, he hadn’t seen food in about twenty-six hours. Not only that, he kept giving me strange looks all through out the ride to Crystal Lake.
Now, I’m no idiot. I know what two plus two is, I know the meaning of the word “triskaidekaphobia”, and I know that the sum of the two sides of a right triangle is equal to the length of the hypotenuse. I did not, I repeat, did not know there was a rule in the hitchhiker’s guide that stated I had to service this guy if he gave me a ride.
So I jumped out of there. Yes, I jumped out of a moving big rig. In the process, I lost my shoes, my wallet and my backpack, which I had left on the truck. Like I said, there I was, in Boise, Idaho. No shoes, no money, and definitely no Juliana. What was I going to do? Her birthday was mere hours I away. Disgruntled, I went inside this rundown diner and ordered myself a glass of ice water with a lemon and sighed heavily. In fact, I sighed so many times that night I was pretty sure the waitress thought I had a respiratory disease.
“I’m sorry, Jules…” I said to my glass, and I imagined her glasses-covered face standing behind me. In fact, I could almost see her face. I did a double take. That was her face! I spun around in the chair.
“Juliana?”
”Todd?”
I stared her deep in her mousy brown eyes, not so dark as ebony, but more a warm, Hershey’s chocolate bar color. Her small, sort of manly hand fell into mine. I could no longer contain my passion; I reached in and kissed her. Hard, and before I knew it, I had slipped my found into her mouth. There, it met a warm, wild set of twists and turns that I didn’t know how to deal with. Finally, I decided we needed some air and I drew back. I smiled and began to pick up some of Juliana’s more striking features. Her full, rich lips, her long dark hair, her flat chest, her Adam’s apple…
Wait a fuck, her Adam’s apple?
“Juliana? Why do you have an…” Then I did something I’ll regret for the rest of my life. I looked down.
To see her…raging…erection.
”SWEET MARY JANE, SHE HAS A PENIS!” I covered my mouth to block the impending vomit and sped off to the bathroom. I ended up in Boise, Idaho, losing my shoes, money and dignity along the way. Now, I had also lost my lunch.
***
In Pigwell, time is not measured by days or weeks by the number of eighteen wheelers that drive past my house. But I wasn’t in Pigwell anymore. I was in Boise…no shoes, no money, and no nothing. It’s not that I was in a rough town. Judas Friggin’ Priest, I was in Pigwell: Part Two, a place so boring that watching paint dry was an actual town event. Planning to hitchhike to Minnesota had sounded like a fun idea when I had begun, but it became so lackluster when I started to get picked up by lonely truckers who wanted more than just my company, if you know what I mean.
Of course you know what I mean.
I started off with about two hundred dollars worth of emergency money and visions of Minnesota dancing in my head. Why Minnesota? Well, I met this girl Juliana online and we hit it off real well. I mean, really well. I had sifted through millions and millions (that’s no exaggeration) of girls online. There were all the same; acronyms aplenty and brightly different colored texts and font combinations that made me want to puke.
Juliana stuck out. She used Times New Roman, size twelve in a midnight blue color. She capitalized when necessary, punctuated and used bold and italics rather than caps lock to emphasize certain words or phrases. She always put up an away message when left the computer, and never, ever used the acronym for “laughing out loud”. I was in love, and I hadn’t even seen this girl.
Over the course of our conversations I found out there was more to like than just great grammar. She was smart, possibly the first girl I had met that was smarter than me, and was well-versed in fandom I didn’t even dare dabble in. I knew Alan Moore’s Watchmen, I mean, I knew of it. I even tried to read it once, I think, but I got lost somewhere between Rorasc...Rosca…see, I don’t even know what his name was. When I found out she possessed a bootleg copy of the Star Wars Holiday Special that was the end. The search was over. I was in love.
So I had to find her. I knew from talking to her she live in St. Paul, Minnesota. We had exchanged phone numbers and pictures. Jules wasn’t stunning in the traditional sense, but I liked what I saw. She was kind of short, a little on the chubby side, but hey, I’m no Bill Phillips myself. I liked her thick-rimmed glasses and the way she snorted when she laughed. Discovering her birthday was November 25, I figured what better present for her than me.
This is before I knew the terrors of hitchhiking.
Ok, not terrors really. I was first picked up by a rather crabby old couple who smelled suspiciously like cabbage. Not that cabbage is such a suspicious smell, but nonetheless, it was the vegetable they smelled like. The old woman continuously ranted about the young men and women of today did nothing but have sex and smoke weed. I tried to mention all the young people making significant changes in the world. Of course, the fact that she called weed “dope” sent me in fits of giggles.
They dropped me off in…actually; I’m not sure where they dropped me off. The next guy who picked up reeked like marijuana, and I had to succumb. That old lady going on and on about the horrors and dangers of cannabis made me want it that much more. I rocked the cheeba in his beat up Pinto as he went on government conspiracies to inflict us with diseases that made us pump money into the corporations that truly controlled America. It seemed as though this guy had all his conspiracy theories conveniently rolled up into one neat little package. This was odd, because the only thing the guy seemed to wrap tight were his joints. Oh well, he dropped me off at a gas station in God-knows-where and this weird looking kid picked me up.
He wasn’t really a kid; he was a full grown man. And he was driving a truck. One of those big rigs so big you swear it was manufactured for Andre the Giant to drive. He had an eye missing and his name was Ralph, and I probably should’ve stated that in reverse order. Whatever, it’s too late now. But he was a surefire son of a gun who claimed to be a son of the sun, which would technically make him a cowboy. Of course, seeing as how he drove a truck, I barely saw the connection. Except that he hauled around prime rib cuts. This was kind of like herding cattle.
Kind of.
Apparently, Ralph had been having some issues in his life. His wife had divorced him, his son wanted a sex change operation, his dog had been run over by a pick-up truck, he’d ran out of clean underwear three weeks prior, and to top it all off, he hadn’t seen food in about twenty-six hours. Not only that, he kept giving me strange looks all through out the ride to Crystal Lake.
Now, I’m no idiot. I know what two plus two is, I know the meaning of the word “triskaidekaphobia”, and I know that the sum of the two sides of a right triangle is equal to the length of the hypotenuse. I did not, I repeat, did not know there was a rule in the hitchhiker’s guide that stated I had to service this guy if he gave me a ride.
So I jumped out of there. Yes, I jumped out of a moving big rig. In the process, I lost my shoes, my wallet and my backpack, which I had left on the truck. Like I said, there I was, in Boise, Idaho. No shoes, no money, and definitely no Juliana. What was I going to do? Her birthday was mere hours I away. Disgruntled, I went inside this rundown diner and ordered myself a glass of ice water with a lemon and sighed heavily. In fact, I sighed so many times that night I was pretty sure the waitress thought I had a respiratory disease.
“I’m sorry, Jules…” I said to my glass, and I imagined her glasses-covered face standing behind me. In fact, I could almost see her face. I did a double take. That was her face! I spun around in the chair.
“Juliana?”
”Todd?”
I stared her deep in her mousy brown eyes, not so dark as ebony, but more a warm, Hershey’s chocolate bar color. Her small, sort of manly hand fell into mine. I could no longer contain my passion; I reached in and kissed her. Hard, and before I knew it, I had slipped my found into her mouth. There, it met a warm, wild set of twists and turns that I didn’t know how to deal with. Finally, I decided we needed some air and I drew back. I smiled and began to pick up some of Juliana’s more striking features. Her full, rich lips, her long dark hair, her flat chest, her Adam’s apple…
Wait a fuck, her Adam’s apple?
“Juliana? Why do you have an…” Then I did something I’ll regret for the rest of my life. I looked down.
To see her…raging…erection.
”SWEET MARY JANE, SHE HAS A PENIS!” I covered my mouth to block the impending vomit and sped off to the bathroom. I ended up in Boise, Idaho, losing my shoes, money and dignity along the way. Now, I had also lost my lunch.