No Trust

Lisa had been led to believe that when her ailing rich uncle finally passed away, she would receive a trust fund until she reached the age of twenty-five. Whether it was because he died before he had a chance to place a restriction on her inheritance, or he never meant to in the first place, would never be known. All Lisa DID know was that in the space of a day she’d gone from packing her work lunches in brown paper bags, to being able to quit her job and live in luxury.

Although walking away from the daily grind at the office was tempting, she decided not to. Instead, she kept her job and bought a house on the posh side of town. Right next door to Roland, the flashiest, most eligible bachelor within a hundred miles. In Lisa’s opinion, it was the only drawback of the whole deal.

Author’s note: Until October the 31st, I’m going to try to use this space to create possible beginnings for my 2016 NaNoWriMo project. In the tags below, you’ll see the genre I’m considering for the above story. Feedback is welcome.

A Clue

Frank was sick. His nose was running, his throat hurt, and he felt generally lethargic. An early night would probably cure him of the worst of it, he thought. Just a cold.

It wasn’t until he got up in the morning and looked in the bathroom mirror that he realized there was something more serious going on. He wondered what kind of a doctor he’d need to see for the three toes growing out of his forehead. Perhaps a podiatrist.

Author’s note: Until October the 31st, I’m going to use this space to create possible beginnings for my 2016 NaNoWriMo project. Feedback is welcome.

Ain’t got a leg to stand on

“I’m not sayin’ it’s a conspiracy, Jared,” said Jenny as he walked and she rode her electric wheelchair through the grocery store parking lot, “I’m just sayin’ the doctor’s wife was walking on crutches and now she’s not.”

“So? Lots of people’s legs get better.”

“My left one won’t. Doctor took it off. And just last week I saw the doctor’s wife and she’s got the same tattoo on her ankle as I had.”

“You honestly think Dr. Stein would have taken your leg of if there was nothing wrong with it?”

She looked at Jared but said nothing.

“And put it on his own wife instead?”

Jenny shook her head. “I’m just sayin’.”


A man walks into a bar. He goes up to the bartender and says, “I’m the guy.”

“What guy?” Asks the bartender.

“The guy who walked into the bar.”

“Huh. You got a horse?”


“A dog?”

“No, I don’t have one of those either.”

“So what’s so special about you?”

The man widens his stance and puts his hands on his hips, and says, “I’m self-aware.”

The bartender stares, speechless. He stares for so long that the man begins to feel uncomfortable.

“What?” says the man eventually.

The bartender points past the man to the door. The man turns and sees every character that has ever walked into the bar. As one, they kneel down and chant, “WE’RE NOT WORTHY!”

And then the bar falls down and turns to dust.


A man walks into a bar. Stop me if you’ve heard this one.

#SoCS – A Lifetime of Balls

I woke up this morning to find a bag of balls on my front stoop. They were all the balls I’ve ever owned in my life. Ones I played catch with, with my dad; ones that went over fences never to be retrieved; ones that hung on the Christmas tree during the first year of my first marriage… Right up until the ball I was playing with yesterday – one of the three I was juggling at the kid’s birthday party. Yes, I’m a clown. The only one they missed is the ball on my nose. Of course, I sleep with that one.

The bag of balls is someone’s idea of a dirty trick, obviously. Probably someone I left in the sewer system…

AUTHOR’S NOTE: If I could edit this I’d leave a hint somewhere that shows earlier that my stream of consciousness ended up at a killer clown.


And that’s what SoCS is all about! Check it out here:


I am walking along a deserted street. It is daytime and inside the houses, dogs whine, expectant; the driveways empty of cars that instead are offhandedly whiling away dollars in dirty parking lots. The autumn wind blows beneath an overcast sky and the remaining leaves rustle like bones turning to dust in drafty mausoleums. I think that you are following me.

Footsteps plod along behind me to the rhythm of my own and your icy stare crawls up my spine like an eight-legged ghoul. I increase my speed, unwilling to look over my shoulder. To envision you there is horror enough: to see you there will turn me to mortar.

In my dreams I am unable to run fast enough and I awake with a film of cold sweat coating my skin. I turn and see the silhouette of your shoulder under the covers in the bed beside me, framed by moonlight and I awake yet again, relieved to find I am alone.

But now I am sure. I feel static in the air as your hand reaches out. Your dry palm scratches against the fabric on the shoulder of my coat. I crumble, screaming, screaming at the top of my lungs. I awake.

I glance at the dog. He whines, expectant.