Delicious But Deadly

(Note: This story was my entry in this contest.  I'm going short and sweet today.)

“Is cranberry sauce supposed to taste like this?” asked Zuri.  Her nostrils flared.

“You act as if this is your first Thanksgiving.  Yes, of course.  Sweet and tangy, isn’t it?” Zander replied.  He licked the red film from his incisors.

“I’ve never had cranberry sauce with my Thanksgiving feast.  In San Diego the food was quite average on Thanksgiving.”  Zuri took another turn eating from the can.  “How did you manage to get this anyway?”

“The zookeeper had it in his pocket for some reason.  I think she said something about giving her mother-in-law a nice sur—”

Both of the zebras fell to the dirt, writhing.

The Bloodshot Biologist (Two-Minute Version)

(Note: I originally posted this story in three parts.  This is the heavily edited two-minute version.)

      Our story begins in a small cottage in a rather emerald-hued section roughly mid-way into a forest.  This was the cottage of a man, a solitary, intelligent man.  The local people called him “Tim”.

     Tim was a studying man.  He spent his days on his porch, watching little woodland creatures.  He was fond of the animals.  He even gave them each a name.  One rabbit he called “Fluffy”.  A red fox he called “Auburn”.  He found that name particularly creative.

     Tim studied the animals for hours a day, for so long that his eyes were quite bloodshot.  This earned him his nickname, “The Bloodshot Biologist”.  Needless to say, he preferred that over Tim.

     One day, Tim had a thought.  He thought something like, and now for something completely different.  So, he went inside and brewed himself his first cup of coffee.  While doing so, Tim had another thought.  “I’m getting tired of the animals in my yard.  I think I will make myself a new one.”

     He decided to make a trek the next morning to the shop of the local blacksmithing wizard.  He planned to have the wizard make him a magical tool that would help him create new animals.

#

     Tim set off the next dawn.

     The forest floor crunched lightly beneath his boots.  Or oozed grotesquely when he stepped on…never mind.

     Suddenly, a brown-haired man stepped in front of Tim’s path.  His beard seemed to glow in the limited light.  In a gruff voice he declared, “I challenge thee.  En garde!”  The man exploded forward, curved hand above his head.

     Luckily, Tim was a master of forearm-warfare.  He crouched slightly and waited.  As soon as the man dropped his hand to strike, Tim shifted to the left.   He swiped at…

     Long story short, Tim dodged the man’s roundhouse kick and prevailed with a blow to his chin.

     Tim continued his stroll, triumph evident in his gait.

     At last he came upon a sturdy wooden door.  “Blacksmith” was spelled out in iron letters above the frame.   Pink twine fastened a piece of paper to the lion’s-head doorknocker.  It read: “Out on party business; do not wait for me.”

     And so Tim fell to his knees and wept.  The End.

The Bloodshot Biologist (Part 3 of 3)

(Note: This humor is extremely deliberate.  It's supposed to sound awful.)

     A light-brown-haired man stepped in front of Tim’s path several yards ahead of him.  His beard seemed to glow in the limited light.  In a gruff voice he declared, “I challenge thee to a martial arts bout.  En garde!”  The man exploded forward, curved hand above his head.

     Luckily, Tim was also a master of forearm-warfare.  He crouched slightly and waited.  As soon as the man dropped his hand to strike, Tim shifted to the left.   He swiped out at the back of the man’s calf, nearly throwing him off balance.  The man whipped around with a high kick.  Tim brought up his arm and slipped it even higher, bringing the man to the ground.

     With a look of satisfaction, Tim crouched down beside the man.  “I believe I’ve…” he began, but was cut off by a jab to the face.  “That’s how you’d like to play?” he asked while ramming his elbow into the man’s sternum.

     The man leapt to his feet with a grin.  “It’ll take a lot more than that to take me down, and yes,” he said.  He made a taunting gesture.  The provocation was met by a hard swing at the thigh, deflected with ease.  Another thrust of the forearm landed across his abdominals a moment later.

     “You are quite an admirable opponent,” he said with a sneer.  “I guess I’ll have to use my secret weapon”.  The man bent down slightly, leapt into the air, and spun, right leg stretched in from of him.  The air seemed to pop with the sheer wickedness.  Tim jumped out of the way, body clearing the kick by only a few inches.

     “It’s time to end this,” Tim declared.  He charged forward and faked a blow to the shin, causing the man to back up a step and defend his legs.  Tim took the moment of weakness to lunge forward and pound his arm into the man’s chin.  The man’s eyes widened.  He teetered for a moment, and then stated, “You have discovered my weakness.   My honor is shattered.  I must depart.”  A fierce gait moved him away from the battlefield, a single tear marring his rugged cheek.

      Satisfaction spread across Tim’s face.  He continued his stroll, triumph evident in his walk.  The stream narrowed slightly as the trees thinned.

     Tim came upon a sturdy wooden door.  “Blacksmith” was spelled out in iron letters above the frame.   Pink twine fastened a piece of paper to the lion’s-head doorknocker.  It read: “Out on party business; do not wait for me.”

     And so Tim fell to his knees and wept.  The End.

The Bloodshot Biologist (Part 2 of 3)

     Tim woke at a leisurely hour.  He massaged his neck and shoulders before rising with a yawn.  “It will be a long journey to the forge,” he thought aloud.  He strode over to a corner where he kept his travel-sack and bundle-stick.  The feel of burlap meant great adventure to Tim, as he was far from well-travelled.

     From his dresser Tim retrieved a fresh set of garments.  A forest-green tunic above a linen shirt and cloth leggings made up his clothes for travel.  Tim fished a fistful of copper coins, a few artichokes from his pitiful garden, and a waterskin.  He placed them in his sack and tied them to his stick, setting it aside so that he could perform further preparations.

     Food was limited in the forest.  Tim nibbled at some wild pears that managed to grow on a feral tree not far from his dwelling.  The excitement of his quest began to gnaw at him.  With a toss of his fruit to his friends, Tim entered his boots, mounted his luggage on his shoulder, and set out into the wood.

     The floor of the forest produced a soft crunch.  Or a grotesque ooze when he stepped on…  Nonetheless, Tim trudged forward at a brisk pace.  The rounded to the east down a gentle slope.  The downgrade was flanked by maples, the same trees he used to make syrup for the squirrels.  He didn’t eat it himself, that would be folly.  The squirrels don’t take kindly to people who eat their syrup.

     The faint pathway out of the wood edged to the right along a spindly stream.  The minor waterway was the main source of water in Tim’s part of the forest.  It doubled as a marking system to grant the easiest exit from the forest.  Tim followed it for about a mile with little excitement.  That all changed.

The Bloodshot Biologist (Part 1 of 3)

(Note: this is very deliberate humor.)

     It was deep in the forest that it happened.  The forest was rather deep.  It was a rather deep, rather green forest.  The local people even ventured to call it “The Rather Deep and Green Forest”.  In this forest a great and mystical thing happened.  Actually, it was two progressive mystical happenings.  They were so mystical that some called them “The Mystical Occurrences from the Rather Deep and Green Forest.”

     The mystical occurrences from the deep, green forest began one day in a small cottage in a rather emerald-hued section roughly mid-way into the forest.  This was the cottage of a man.  He was a solitary, intelligent man.  The local people called him “Tim”.

     Tim was a man apt to study.  He spent his days on his porch with a mug of tea, peering out into his vast yard watching little woodland creatures.  He was fond of the animals.  The animals were each given a name, although their true titles were known by Tim.  One grey rabbit he called “Fluffy”.  A red fox he called “Auburn”.  The names go on and on.

     Tim studied the animals for hours a day, for so long that his eyes were quite bloodshot.  It was this behavior that earned Tim his nickname “The Bloodshot Biologist”.  Needless to say, he preferred that over Tim.

     After years of watching the various species of creatures in his little nook, Tim had a thought.  He thought something like, “and now for something completely different.”  Thus, he went inside and brewed himself his first cup of coffee.  Whilst doing so, Tim had another thought.  “I’m getting tired of the animals in my yard,” he pondered, sighing audibly.  “I think I will make myself a new one.”

     This posed a problem.  How would Tim create a new animal?  A tool!  A special tool would be needed for an animal to be created.  Tim made a plan.  He decided to make a trek the next morning to the home of the local blacksmith.  The blacksmith lived in the far-off “Rather Shallow and Plain Forest”.  After so much productive thinking, Tim got into his cot and drifted to sleep, dreaming of different animals he could make once he had a tool made by the blacksmith.

JFK

     “Breaking News!  Mr. President has been shot.  He’s alive for the moment, but eyewitness reports of the wounds reveal that they are bound to be fatal.  This is a testament to you, JFK, a man who changed the world.

     You were born in a flaming chariot in the back-woods of West Virginia.  At the age of seven weeks you delivered a persuasive speech to your parents asking for better living conditions.  You moved out of that hot ride and into a cool villa in California.  California, the worst time in your life.

     During your time in California, the only celebrity you saw in fourteen years was the man in the mirror.  And Michael Jackson, but, you usually don’t count him… In school you were bullied for being just plain too handsome.  Those California girls were intimidated.  While there, your parents hit big as gold miners.  Unfortunately, the San Francisco 49ers didn’t do so well.  Your father ended up bankrupt after betting his profits on a lost cause.  After that, your family shifted into the shadows.  You joined a boxing club and taught the Italian Stallion a thing or two.  With a swift right hook you changed his last name.  Then you moved again, to Texas.

     In Texas you put a few pieces of bread in the toaster, and voila, Texas toast.  It soon became a national craze.  After that, you single-handedly reenacted the Battle of the Alamo dressed as Davy Crockett, and thus his legend was born.  You would later play the greatest game of dodgeball seen on Earth, against the Lone Ranger. 
     At the age of sixteen, you decided to attend college.  Brigham Young University was your choice, as a joke to your personal tutor the Pope.  There you married half a dozen women, cheated on them with Marilyn Monroe, put their names in a hat and drew one, divorced everyone else, and decided to run for President.

     When being sworn in as President, you criticized the Chief Justice for his foul language.  During your reign, I mean presidency, you became a savior for minorities, because you felt a common bond with them as no other person could possibly be in the same category of sheer awesomeness as you.  On November 22, 1963, you rode in a parade in your old home of Texas, where you were ironically hit by two fragments of misfired Cuban missiles. 

     So, here we are today, the Day Fitzgerald Died.”

The Boy and the Man-servant

I tried writing a few serious pieces for today, but failed.  I decided to do a fast-paced, comedic story inspired by Winnie-the-Pooh (with added violence).  Also, this is my new flash fiction font.

                  So it was that the King died, bringing the Queen to grief, overworking the jester, who perished in his poverty-stricken wife’s arms, leading her to work as a servant for a most malicious baron, bringing her to the brink of death with her infant son in her hands.

            That infant son grew up in the baron’s household, despised and enslaved.  He knew nothing of his mother or the events leading up to her death.  That is, until one day.

            “Your mother died when you were but three moons old, ye know?” one of the man-servants said to him.

            “Actually, no, I didn’t know that,” he replied.

            “Oh.”

            “Well do go on, please.”

            “Why should I?” the man-servant spat.

            “Because I asked nicely!”

            “Fine, fine, fine.”

            The man-servant recounted the tale to the boy in full, leaving out not as much as a single detail.

            The boy’s face was scrunched up in anger.  “And how did the King die?”

            “The King, oh, I haven’t a clue.”

            “Try to remember while I go kill the baron.”

            “Okay.”  The man-servant took a deep breath and put on a thinking face.  He looked up suddenly and shouted, “Kill the baron!”

            “Why, yes.  He led to the death of my mother.  I really must kill him.”

            “Very well.  At least let me help.”

            “The more the merrier.”

            The boy and the man-servant went out to the shed of the estate.  They withdraw two iron sickles.

            “How exactly do you plan to kill him?” asked the man-servant.

            “We have sickles, don’t we?”

            “You haven’t a plan then?”

            “Nope.”

            The man-servant reverted to his thinking face as he walked through the vast yard.  “I have it!”

            “Have what?”

            “A plan.”

            “Do go on, please.”

            “Why should I?”

            The boy flicked his sickle in front of the man-servant’s throat.  “Because I’ll kill you too if you don’t tell me!”

            “No need to get hasty,” said the manservant as he pushed away the sickle’s handle, frowning.  “We must first re-enter the manor.  Next, we shall go into the entry chamber and coo loudly like birds.”

            “What type of birds?”

            “Whichever kind you like.”

            The boy smiled.

            “Anyway, this will certainly lead to the baron coming down to see why there are birds in his home.  I will conceal my sickle and recite some long anecdote on the spot, during which you must get behind him and chop off his head.  I’ll make sure that he’s dead.”

            The boy stopped walking, his mouth hanging open.  “Brilliant!” he screeched, raising both fists, almost hacking off the man-servants head by mistake.

            “Woah!  You’re killing the baron, not me.”

            “Sorry.”

            “S’okay.”

            The large oak door of the manor opened into a large marble room leading into a large entry hall.

            “I always wonder why this house is so very small,” remarked the man-servant.

            “I thought I was the only one.”

            “Well, we had best get to cooing.”

            Lovely sounds crashed through the hall as they got to their cooing.  A loud thump overshadowed them.

            “Why are there birds in my house?” the baron shouted in a deep, annoying, overly-regal voice.

            The man-servant stepped up to him and said, “In a little hallow in Silver Creek there lies a tree.  On that tree are many branches.  On one of those branches there is a nest, the prettiest nest that you ever did see.”

            “Ooo, and does that nest have birdies in it?” asked the baron childishly.

            “Don’t rush me.”

            “Sorry, sorry, please go on.”

            So it was that the man-servant asked the baron, “Why should I?” and the baron lost his head as he scrambled for an appropriate reply.  The man-servant gave the baron an extra hack to the chest and dropped his sickle with a clatter, raising both fists for a wicked double fist-bump.

            They lived happily for the next several minutes.  Then they died.