What's in Dan's trunk?
I borrowed Dan's car the other day because there were some great sales on canned goods at the grocery store. Canned goods are almost perfect -- non-perishable, inexpensive, convenient. But like anything in life, they have at least one fault, in this case, weight. I'd usually walk or ride my bike to the store, using my backpack to carry everything back home to the mothership but cans are much too heavy. My doctor said that if I lift just one more box of bibles I'll need a new back faster than the Internet that the Flash invented after he decided that running around is boooooring. Plus, it's winter and I don't need to be freezing anymore than Barack Obama needs a reliable, day-to-day underpant.
I was in the store, happy as a pig in Rome. I went to the soup aisle first because I knew that I'd go buckwild, and sure enough, five minutes in I have an assortment of condensed delights as well as some of Chef Boyardee's finest and 4 of those hearty classics, un-condensed. I'm a variety man so I got one of each -- Chicken Barley Disaster with Oat Slivers, Beef and Kidney Utah-Style, Vegetable Neighbour - Fat and Vitamin Free and the one I'm looking most forward to, Lettuce and Cheese Limited Edition with Chew.
I figured I wouldn't be able to afford much more so I had to decide what my final cans would be. Originally I wanted to do fruit over vegetables because I love how they take the skin off my favourites, but in a split-second decision guided by my taste buds and the voice of my dad telling me "anything brown tastes good", I double downed on canned gravies.
At the check-out the clerk asked me if I was planning on donating any of my loot to a Holiday food drive that was in full swing. The guy caught me off-guard and since my mind was on soup and soup only, I blurted out "I borrowed a car for these, no". He wasn't as friendly after that and I swear he held my change in his palm extra long and tight just to clam it up for me. The bag boy was a different breed altogether. His sloppy right eye winked at me, then his extra-long head nodded toward a semi-attractive middle-aged woman who was paying for a bundle of organic carrots and a tube of mascara. I didn't know what he was referencing so I tossed him a quarter and told him to "learn Italian, kid". I always like to confuse those who I feel are attempting to confuse me.
At this point you probably want to know what was in Dan's trunk. I don't know! I couldn't get the damn thing open. I had to put the cans in the backseat alongside some jumper cables and a baby seat Dan uses when he's trying to impress the cheerleader who works the drive-thru. All I know is that I spent 3 hours in the parking lot trying to get the trunk open. During that extensive time period I discovered the following about what might be inside the trunk:
1) It smelled like my grandma's old bathroom in and around the trunk. The scent is a mixture of a room deodorizer that smells of spring flowers, 2000 Flushes Blue Plus Bleach and this medicine she had that kind of smelled like swordfish on the BBQ. To make sure I wasn't crazy, I smelled everything in the vicinity. The shopping cart coral smelled like oil and vinegar, but only because someone had spilled a bottle of dressing. It was fairly fresh as I saw no crows.
2) Whatever was in there was big because the rear part of the car was riding fairly low. This piece of evidence I cannot fully trust as Dan has had trouble with his shocks and struts before, which is a result of him storing bricks of silver in the backseat during that strange period in Dan's life when he believed in the healing powers of precious metals. I'm generally a skeptic but his fingernails were a lot clearer back in those days.
3) There wasn't any sound coming out of the trunk but when I was driving to the store and turned up my 48th Highlanders Pipes and Drums casette tape I thought I heard myself run over a duck. I pulled over quickly to check things out but there was no duck. There wasn't even a rat. The road was clear. I know this sounds like something out of a horror movie about a murderer who hides in cars, but I think the sound came from within the car.
You're probably wondering why I don't just ask Dan what's in the trunk. Here's the thing: when I went to drop the car off, Dan was very excited and told me that his short film had been accepted into Cannes. I didn't want to create a strange atmosphere that might damper his good news so I shut my trap and we drank mimosas with him and his family.
Dan is at Cannes as we speak and he lent me his car for the entire two weeks. I still haven't got the trunk open but I did score a date with the cheerleader from the drive-thru after she saw how much soup I got. I'll keep you updated but I think this is one of those mysteries that will remain unsolved.
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
August 17, 2011
SIGMUND FRAUD
UPSIDE BACKWARD
A short story of neo-fiction
Mikk and Drip work for the city.
They've been best friends since the day they met, Marf 36th, 3045. Over the years they shared many interests - tubby girls, vintage silk, and finding the freshest produce in town. They'd share ripe Zengarn Apples picked fresh off the trees growing out of the side of the cat museum and talk about their future while pulling carrots from the toilet garden in the new mall powered by hugs. Back then it didn't really matter where they'd end up in life, as long as they were together.
They had originally applied to be garbage makers, but when the clerk saw they had filled out their applications using a sugarcane quill with blueberry ink, they were immediately flagged and sent to Zone West for a then top secret municipal project. Opportunities for young bucks fresh out of water school don't come around that often so the choice to stick around was an easy one.
Training took the better part of a lunch hour and by the time the fresh week began the two faux brauxthers hit the streets with new responsibilities, new equipment, new belts, and new names. Mikk took the name "Penis" after the great liberator who freed the basketball players 250 years prior. Drip always liked him name so he dropped the "D" and added a "P". The woman working down in name tags had never tingled as fiercely as that afternoon when Prip put in the request. His daddy used to say "If you make the girls tingle, soon they'll want your dingle".
Their first call came that same day when the Priest of Police himself rang their bell and alerted them to a hot spot at a nearby domed barn. It was dark. Training was always so well lit! Hearts pumped and sweat said hello as they cautiously made their way through the barn looking like Frankenstein when he went anywhere. When they smelled it they knew they were in the right spot.
Unnatural. Thick. Somewhat desirable, then very desirable. Right outta the guidebook. The Great Masters said anti-freeze tastes like a cool summer breeze, but that don't make it right. They proceeded blindly into a large chamber, whispers in the dark. A low level sizzle could be heard, but where was it coming from?
"By the order of the Mayor and all his birds, we order you to cease and turn some lights on."
Prip knew it was an empty statement, but rules are rules. Surprisingly, the suspects obliged and the chamber was alight.
Three men. Four men? No, seven. Seven men, two units, three shelves. The calculations seemed quick enough to Penis but before he knew it an eighth man had him upside down by his feet. Prip wasn't faring any better, as two men proceeded to drag him to the bigger of the two units. It wasn't rocket math to figure out what would happen next.
The shortest man in the bunch attended the active unit and removed an alloy cage from it, moving its brown contents onto what appeared to be toilet paper laid out on a platter. Penis recognized the spread from one of the visions they were fed in training - fried bird and potato fries. A Class 5 violation punishable to either death or hung feet first from a helicopter for three weeks straight. He went for his flasher but was quickly detained by his captors and led to the shelves where he saw boxes of Class 4 cocoa strips and some other illegals he didn't recognize.
They got fed fried chicken and candy (which is illegal in the future) and they loved it so they quit.
It's not done yet, but I didn't want to rob you of a satisfying conclusion. The future. Live well. The end.
A short story of neo-fiction
Mikk and Drip work for the city.
They've been best friends since the day they met, Marf 36th, 3045. Over the years they shared many interests - tubby girls, vintage silk, and finding the freshest produce in town. They'd share ripe Zengarn Apples picked fresh off the trees growing out of the side of the cat museum and talk about their future while pulling carrots from the toilet garden in the new mall powered by hugs. Back then it didn't really matter where they'd end up in life, as long as they were together.
They had originally applied to be garbage makers, but when the clerk saw they had filled out their applications using a sugarcane quill with blueberry ink, they were immediately flagged and sent to Zone West for a then top secret municipal project. Opportunities for young bucks fresh out of water school don't come around that often so the choice to stick around was an easy one.
Training took the better part of a lunch hour and by the time the fresh week began the two faux brauxthers hit the streets with new responsibilities, new equipment, new belts, and new names. Mikk took the name "Penis" after the great liberator who freed the basketball players 250 years prior. Drip always liked him name so he dropped the "D" and added a "P". The woman working down in name tags had never tingled as fiercely as that afternoon when Prip put in the request. His daddy used to say "If you make the girls tingle, soon they'll want your dingle".
Their first call came that same day when the Priest of Police himself rang their bell and alerted them to a hot spot at a nearby domed barn. It was dark. Training was always so well lit! Hearts pumped and sweat said hello as they cautiously made their way through the barn looking like Frankenstein when he went anywhere. When they smelled it they knew they were in the right spot.
Unnatural. Thick. Somewhat desirable, then very desirable. Right outta the guidebook. The Great Masters said anti-freeze tastes like a cool summer breeze, but that don't make it right. They proceeded blindly into a large chamber, whispers in the dark. A low level sizzle could be heard, but where was it coming from?
"By the order of the Mayor and all his birds, we order you to cease and turn some lights on."
Prip knew it was an empty statement, but rules are rules. Surprisingly, the suspects obliged and the chamber was alight.
Three men. Four men? No, seven. Seven men, two units, three shelves. The calculations seemed quick enough to Penis but before he knew it an eighth man had him upside down by his feet. Prip wasn't faring any better, as two men proceeded to drag him to the bigger of the two units. It wasn't rocket math to figure out what would happen next.
The shortest man in the bunch attended the active unit and removed an alloy cage from it, moving its brown contents onto what appeared to be toilet paper laid out on a platter. Penis recognized the spread from one of the visions they were fed in training - fried bird and potato fries. A Class 5 violation punishable to either death or hung feet first from a helicopter for three weeks straight. He went for his flasher but was quickly detained by his captors and led to the shelves where he saw boxes of Class 4 cocoa strips and some other illegals he didn't recognize.
They got fed fried chicken and candy (which is illegal in the future) and they loved it so they quit.
It's not done yet, but I didn't want to rob you of a satisfying conclusion. The future. Live well. The end.
August 19, 2010
BEE'S KEYS
Is it just me or does every guy named "Benjamin" truly resemble a "Benjamin"?
That up there isn't exactly "food for thought" but more "snack for thought". I think true food is like math and hard poetry, not the Summer Dude kind.
I've been working on a new website for myself the last few days, jam packed with stuff you've probably seen here if you're one of the top fans. As I was scouring the archives of my computer, I came across this short story I wrote a few years ago for some contest. I could have sworn I'd posted it here before, but that search function I added told me otherwise, so either I haven't posted it before or Google is playing a little game of "being wrong". In the spirit of new content, I've pasted it below for you to ingest. I didn't win the contest probably because the the panel thought it was too abrasive for their hardwired, conservative imaginations. The winning story didn't even have any magic in it! Some of the formatting is screwy from pasting it in here, so all you Grammar Grahams just hold your tongue and continue reading the latest confusing magazine.
That up there isn't exactly "food for thought" but more "snack for thought". I think true food is like math and hard poetry, not the Summer Dude kind.
I've been working on a new website for myself the last few days, jam packed with stuff you've probably seen here if you're one of the top fans. As I was scouring the archives of my computer, I came across this short story I wrote a few years ago for some contest. I could have sworn I'd posted it here before, but that search function I added told me otherwise, so either I haven't posted it before or Google is playing a little game of "being wrong". In the spirit of new content, I've pasted it below for you to ingest. I didn't win the contest probably because the the panel thought it was too abrasive for their hardwired, conservative imaginations. The winning story didn't even have any magic in it! Some of the formatting is screwy from pasting it in here, so all you Grammar Grahams just hold your tongue and continue reading the latest confusing magazine.
MIRIAM’S ADVENTURE
By Glenn Macaulay
Trace Blitzer opened the curtains to the bay window in his 93rd floor condominium just after the digits on his Sanyo alarm clock glowed 7:03.
Miriam had not yet awoke but was stirring in her sleep as if she was having a dream about something scary and strange like spaghetti that can drive and also play video games. Her spectacular new two hundred dollar hairstyle was still intact and looked unnatural on her otherwise unspectacular head.
Trace wondered if he should wake her, as he tied the belt to his black terry-cloth robe tight around his chiseled 30-inch waist.
“Are the waffles on?” asked Miriam with a yawn, startling Trace.
“Can you smell them?” replied Trace.
“Yes! They smell marvelous.”
“Well I didn’t put any on… so I don’t know what you’re smelling,” shot Trace, seemingly annoyed at Miriam’s morning fuzziness.
“Maybe it’s the cat,” Miriam said as she reached to the carpet for her brown turtleneck and basketball shorts, left there the night before so she wouldn’t have to walk to the chest of drawers when the sun reared its funny face.
Of all the tenets of Miriam’s daily routine, getting out of bed had become the most tedious. She much preferred cutting up her lunch-time mango and even administering her cat his requisite cancer medicine to pulling her aunt’s old shirt and her ex-boyfriend’s high school shorts over her self-proclaimed “shitty” body. “Just don’t forget how lucky you are,” she told herself.
Truth was, she often forgot. Considering herself living proof of the old adage “you don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone”, she occasionally yearned for the old days of being an undersexed dweeb. Trace was a hunk and New York City was the place to be, but it just didn’t seem right.
“What are you going to do today baby?” Trace asked, pouring pineapple juice into his San Diego Zoo plastic cup.
“I think I might look for a job, grab a burger and maybe rent a movie,” Miriam answered.
“I can find three things wrong with that. First, I’m making more than enough money for me, you and that fat assed cat, so for the last time you don’t need a job. Secondly, you shouldn’t eat that shit; it’ll blow your ass up. Why not try a sub for once? I eat them every damn day and you have to admit, I look pretty good and I know you like it that way. Third, I’m watching baseball tonight so you can’t watch a movie, unless it’s about baseball. Why don’t you go to the gym and then do some shopping? I passed by a lingerie store the yesterday and realized you don’t have any sexy bras, you know, ones with flowers, so maybe you could do that.”
“Yeah okay.”
Trace went back to the mirror and it occurred to Miriam that she should stop agreeing with people. If she hadn’t agreed to go to the Magic Expo at the convention centre two years ago she would have never met Troon. She couldn’t help but reflect on that day:
“I have strange and wonderful powers. Totally serious,” the strange wizard man called Troon said. Miriam thought he looked a lot like a Jedi and decided to carry on with the conversation out of sheer boredom and a secret love of Mark Hamill.
“That’s what everyone here says. It’s a Magic Expo.”
“Then why don’t I prove it to you? Is there anything you desire?”
“Money, a boyfriend and I never want to work again. And I want a cat.”
Following some dopey incantations, Troon said no more and ran off. Miriam stood flabbergasted and, fed up with the Expo and the dumb wizard, decided to go get a pretzel. Out of nowhere a dashing blonde hunk tapped her on the shoulder holding out a pretzel with mustard on the side, talking to her as if he were her boyfriend, and she suddenly had a decidedly different attitude toward Magic Expos and dumb wizards. That was until she learned what several protagonists in stories about wishes had been taught – be careful what you wish for.
Trace had left for the office and Miriam went to grab the pint of ice cream she hid next to the ice cubes made out of beer that Trace kept around in case his boys came over.
“Put them in your beer and it’s like it cools your beer with beer,” he’d say.
But before she could even grab a spoon, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“This is Troon, how’s your life since I did that spell?”
“Troon?! It’s shitty! My boyfriend is a cock, that cat you gave me is almost dead and eats flowers all day, I’m bored out of my mind and I keep smelling waffles everywhere,” answered Miriam, who would’ve continued cursing Troon if he hadn’t interrupted.
“You want me to change everything back? No big deal really. I think my point has been made.”
“Point? What the hell? I don’t even know you, what point could you possibly have made?”
“That I’m a cool wizard. I’m a genie too, I guess. Everyone at that Magic Expo was being such a dick and I wanted to prove that I’m… you know…a good magic man. Besides, I thought I was doing you a favour!”
“Yeah you did. And I thank you for it. But please change things back to the way they were.”
“No problem. Also, I’m writing an autobiography and I was wondering if I could use your real name in the part about you.”
“Yeah sure.”
“You’ll receive residuals if the book does well.”
“Fine.”
The book went to the top of the charts, and Miriam found herself rich again. This time she married a guy named Duane who edited commercials for a living and who fully supported Miriam’s new job as a cartographer. He was one of those guys that wore corduroy and knew everything there was to know about Joy Division.
June 5, 2008
A TALE FOR YOU CARL
First off, congratulations to that guy Barack Obama for becoming the mayor of Boston or whatever that was.
You know what I hate about TLC's "What Not To Wear"? They get all these dweebs who can't dress and that's all well and good but they're always really young and successful so I don't really feel that bad for them in the first place. The one I saw today was like, "Check out Mary, a 24 year old TV producer who dresses like she's 14." Up yours (butt)! I'm probably just jealous though. I get jealous all the time. If you're eating chips on the street and I'm hungry for chips, I'll probably hate you, even if you are the coolest man or bustiest girl in town.
Here's a very silly short story I wrote for an Eye Weekly short story contest. I didn't win, but as my dad once told me, "Son, if you enter a short story contest and don't win, just post it on the internet later and maybe someone will read it and you can win their short story contest if they ever have one or they might just say in the comments section, like 'that's pretty good' or something." Thanks papa.
MIRIAM’S ADVENTURE
By Glenn Macaulay
Trace Blitzer drew open the curtains to the big bay window in his 93rd floor condominium just after the digits on his Sanyo alarm clock glowed 7:03.
Miriam had not yet awoke but was stirring in her sleep as if she was having a dream about something scary and strange like spaghetti that can drive and also play video games. Her spectacular new two hundred dollar hairstyle was still intact and looked unnatural on her otherwise unspectacular head.
“Should I wake her?” Trace wondered, as he tied the belt to his black terry-cloth robe tight around his chiseled 30-inch waist.
“Are the waffles on?” asked Miriam with a yawn, startling Trace.
“Can you smell them?” replied Trace.
“Yes! They smell marvelous.”
“Well I didn’t put any on… so I don’t know what you’re smelling,” shot Trace, seemingly annoyed at Miriam’s morning fuzziness.
“Maybe it’s the cat,” Miriam said as she reached to the carpet for her brown turtleneck and basketball shorts, left there the night before so she wouldn’t have to walk to the chest of drawers when the sun reared its funny face.
Of all the tenets of Miriam’s daily routine, getting out of bed had become the most tedious. She much preferred cutting up her lunch-time mango and even administering her cat his requisite cancer medicine to pulling her aunt’s old shirt and her ex-boyfriend’s high school shorts over her self-proclaimed “shitty” body. “Just don’t forget how lucky you are,” she told herself.
Truth was, she often forgot, considering herself living proof of the old adage “you don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone”, occasionally yearning for the old days of being an undersexed dweeb. Trace was a hunk and New York City is the place to be, but it just didn’t seem right.
“What are you going to do today baby?” Trace asked, pouring pineapple juice into his faded San Diego Zoo plastic cup.
“I think I might look for a job, grab a burger and maybe rent a movie or something,” Miriam answered.
“I can find three things wrong with that. First, I’m making more than enough money for me, you and that fat assed cat, so for the last time you don’t need a job. Secondly, you shouldn’t eat that shit; it’ll blow your ass up. Why not try a sub for once? I eat them every damn day and you have to admit, I look pretty good and I know you like it that way. Third, I’m watching baseball tonight so you can’t watch a movie, unless it’s about baseball. Why don’t you go to the gym and do some shopping? I passed by a lingerie store the other day and I realized you don’t have any sexy bras, you know, ones with flowers, so maybe you could do that.”
“Yeah okay.”
Trace went back to the mirror and it occurred to Miriam that she should stop agreeing with people. If she hadn’t agreed to go to the Magic Expo at the convention centre two years ago she would have never met Troon. She couldn’t help but reflect on that day:
“I have strange and wonderful powers. Totally serious,” the strange wizard man called Troon said. Miriam thought he looked a lot like a Jedi and decided to carry on with the conversation out of sheer boredom and a secret love of Mark Hamill.
“That’s what everyone here says. It’s a Magic Expo.”
“Then why don’t I prove it to you. Is there anything you desire?”
“Money, a boyfriend and I never want to work again. And I want a cat.”
Following some dopey incantations, Troon said no more and ran off. Miriam stood flabbergasted, and, fed up with the Expo and the dumb wizard, decided to go get a pretzel. When out of nowhere a dashing blonde hunk tapped her on the shoulder holding out a pretzel with mustard on the side and talking to her as if he was her boyfriend, she suddenly had a decidedly different attitude toward Magic Expos and dumb wizards. That was until she learned what several protagonists in stories about wishes had been taught – be careful what you wish for.
Trace had left for the office and Miriam went to grab the pint of ice cream she hid next to the ice cubes made out of beer that Trace kept around in case his boys came over.
“Put them in your beer and it’s like it cools your beer with beer,” he’d say.
But before she could even grab a spoon, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“This is Troon, how’s your life since I did that spell?”
“Troon?! It’s shitty! My boyfriend is a cock, that cat you gave me is almost dead and eats flowers all day, I’m bored out of my mind and I keep smelling waffles everywhere,” answered Miriam, who would’ve continued on cursing Troon if he hadn’t interrupted.
“You want me to change everything back? No big deal really. I think my point has been made.”
“Point? What the hell? I don’t even know you, what point could you possibly have made?”
“That I’m a cool wizard. I’m pretty much a genie too I guess. Everyone at that Magic Expo was being such a dick and I wanted to prove that I’m… you know…a good magic man. Besides, I thought I was doing you a favour”
“Yeah I guess you’re right. Please change things back to the way they were.”
“No problem. Also, I’m writing an autobiography and I was wondering if I could use your real name in the part about you.”
“Yeah sure.”
“You’ll receive residuals if the book does well.”
“Fine.”
The book went to the top of the charts, and Miriam found herself rich again. This time she married a guy named Duane who edited commercials for a living and who fully supported Miriam’s new job as a cartographer. He was one of those guys that wore corduroy and knew everything there was to know about Joy Division.
You know what I hate about TLC's "What Not To Wear"? They get all these dweebs who can't dress and that's all well and good but they're always really young and successful so I don't really feel that bad for them in the first place. The one I saw today was like, "Check out Mary, a 24 year old TV producer who dresses like she's 14." Up yours (butt)! I'm probably just jealous though. I get jealous all the time. If you're eating chips on the street and I'm hungry for chips, I'll probably hate you, even if you are the coolest man or bustiest girl in town.
Here's a very silly short story I wrote for an Eye Weekly short story contest. I didn't win, but as my dad once told me, "Son, if you enter a short story contest and don't win, just post it on the internet later and maybe someone will read it and you can win their short story contest if they ever have one or they might just say in the comments section, like 'that's pretty good' or something." Thanks papa.
MIRIAM’S ADVENTURE
By Glenn Macaulay
Trace Blitzer drew open the curtains to the big bay window in his 93rd floor condominium just after the digits on his Sanyo alarm clock glowed 7:03.
Miriam had not yet awoke but was stirring in her sleep as if she was having a dream about something scary and strange like spaghetti that can drive and also play video games. Her spectacular new two hundred dollar hairstyle was still intact and looked unnatural on her otherwise unspectacular head.
“Should I wake her?” Trace wondered, as he tied the belt to his black terry-cloth robe tight around his chiseled 30-inch waist.
“Are the waffles on?” asked Miriam with a yawn, startling Trace.
“Can you smell them?” replied Trace.
“Yes! They smell marvelous.”
“Well I didn’t put any on… so I don’t know what you’re smelling,” shot Trace, seemingly annoyed at Miriam’s morning fuzziness.
“Maybe it’s the cat,” Miriam said as she reached to the carpet for her brown turtleneck and basketball shorts, left there the night before so she wouldn’t have to walk to the chest of drawers when the sun reared its funny face.
Of all the tenets of Miriam’s daily routine, getting out of bed had become the most tedious. She much preferred cutting up her lunch-time mango and even administering her cat his requisite cancer medicine to pulling her aunt’s old shirt and her ex-boyfriend’s high school shorts over her self-proclaimed “shitty” body. “Just don’t forget how lucky you are,” she told herself.
Truth was, she often forgot, considering herself living proof of the old adage “you don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone”, occasionally yearning for the old days of being an undersexed dweeb. Trace was a hunk and New York City is the place to be, but it just didn’t seem right.
“What are you going to do today baby?” Trace asked, pouring pineapple juice into his faded San Diego Zoo plastic cup.
“I think I might look for a job, grab a burger and maybe rent a movie or something,” Miriam answered.
“I can find three things wrong with that. First, I’m making more than enough money for me, you and that fat assed cat, so for the last time you don’t need a job. Secondly, you shouldn’t eat that shit; it’ll blow your ass up. Why not try a sub for once? I eat them every damn day and you have to admit, I look pretty good and I know you like it that way. Third, I’m watching baseball tonight so you can’t watch a movie, unless it’s about baseball. Why don’t you go to the gym and do some shopping? I passed by a lingerie store the other day and I realized you don’t have any sexy bras, you know, ones with flowers, so maybe you could do that.”
“Yeah okay.”
Trace went back to the mirror and it occurred to Miriam that she should stop agreeing with people. If she hadn’t agreed to go to the Magic Expo at the convention centre two years ago she would have never met Troon. She couldn’t help but reflect on that day:
“I have strange and wonderful powers. Totally serious,” the strange wizard man called Troon said. Miriam thought he looked a lot like a Jedi and decided to carry on with the conversation out of sheer boredom and a secret love of Mark Hamill.
“That’s what everyone here says. It’s a Magic Expo.”
“Then why don’t I prove it to you. Is there anything you desire?”
“Money, a boyfriend and I never want to work again. And I want a cat.”
Following some dopey incantations, Troon said no more and ran off. Miriam stood flabbergasted, and, fed up with the Expo and the dumb wizard, decided to go get a pretzel. When out of nowhere a dashing blonde hunk tapped her on the shoulder holding out a pretzel with mustard on the side and talking to her as if he was her boyfriend, she suddenly had a decidedly different attitude toward Magic Expos and dumb wizards. That was until she learned what several protagonists in stories about wishes had been taught – be careful what you wish for.
Trace had left for the office and Miriam went to grab the pint of ice cream she hid next to the ice cubes made out of beer that Trace kept around in case his boys came over.
“Put them in your beer and it’s like it cools your beer with beer,” he’d say.
But before she could even grab a spoon, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“This is Troon, how’s your life since I did that spell?”
“Troon?! It’s shitty! My boyfriend is a cock, that cat you gave me is almost dead and eats flowers all day, I’m bored out of my mind and I keep smelling waffles everywhere,” answered Miriam, who would’ve continued on cursing Troon if he hadn’t interrupted.
“You want me to change everything back? No big deal really. I think my point has been made.”
“Point? What the hell? I don’t even know you, what point could you possibly have made?”
“That I’m a cool wizard. I’m pretty much a genie too I guess. Everyone at that Magic Expo was being such a dick and I wanted to prove that I’m… you know…a good magic man. Besides, I thought I was doing you a favour”
“Yeah I guess you’re right. Please change things back to the way they were.”
“No problem. Also, I’m writing an autobiography and I was wondering if I could use your real name in the part about you.”
“Yeah sure.”
“You’ll receive residuals if the book does well.”
“Fine.”
The book went to the top of the charts, and Miriam found herself rich again. This time she married a guy named Duane who edited commercials for a living and who fully supported Miriam’s new job as a cartographer. He was one of those guys that wore corduroy and knew everything there was to know about Joy Division.
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