Random Carp!

Here are some story beginnings I wrote ages ago. Some are creepy, others funny, most probably can't be fleshed out. Sometimes I write best in snippets. Observe, if you will.

• Yuri kicked the sand in despair. Callie had been dead for two weeks then, and Miss Cranberry certainly wasn’t helping with the investigation. In fact, Beryl was, at that very moment, dipping her feet in the Pacific tide, treating herself to a King-Size bag of Fritos.

• There was once a time where everybody was happy. The year was 3920, and smiles adorned everybody’s face. Prisoners were happy. Homeless men were happy. Murderers and their victims never felt guilt or sorrow or pain. Everybody had the exact same look on their face: of utter nirvana. That was a much better time.

• Grandpa beat me at cards again this morning.

“I think something’s wrong with Grandpa,” I said to Aileen during breakfast.

My older sister stared at me casually as she took a bite out of her semi-black toast. She waited until she had begun to chew when she said, “Now you notice?”

• Where to begin, where to begin? I suppose I must begin with a title. “The Story of Me.” Yes, that will do nicely. “By Me.” Yes, I suppose that’s necessary, to write the author’s name after the title, for who will know who wrote the wonderful story about me? Then again, my name will be mentioned a lot during the story, as it will be about me. So perhaps I should leave the space for the author’s name blank. Of course, my name does kind of roll of the tongue: Rudy Randolph Ralinda…Rudy Randolph Ralinda…

• I had another dream that I was being chased by a pair of scissors--but they were sharpened this time--and that Hobo Harold had saved me again from a pointy and scratchy demise. As always, I thanked Harold, and then he disappeared back into his lava lamp sanctuary without a trace. I had been getting used to the same storyline, but there was just one thing that had been on my mind for the past month: Who the heck was Hobo Harold?

• Santino Sanchez was the giddiest and most peculiar person I had ever met. His mannerisms made me laugh, his attire would make me chuckle, but no matter how hard he tried to convince me, we were not “friendalicious.”

• Ghghdhhsd453879jf kjfd

“No, Bailey, that’s not how you type words. Watch me.”

Hello my name is Christina.

“Now you try.”

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“Oh, Bailey, if only you knew how to type words, we could make a fortune and move to California.” At only three years old, Bailey sure wasn’t ready enough to be a promising act.

“Bailey! Christina! Lunchtime!”

I sighed at the sound of Mom’s voice, but Bailey ran to the kitchen in a flash. He sat himself down at the largest table in the dining room, and began to chow down on a wholesome hamburger. I sat on the floor, awaiting my gruel. Mom splattered some cold yesterday’s goulash into my red bowl.

Bailey had just finished scarfing down his hamburger when the little beagle turned to me, smirked, and said, “You know, sooner or later, you’re going to spoil me.”

Mom yelled at me to eat and I turned back to my bitter cold Hungarian meal.

• It was February then, and all the crisp, white snow and elegant icicles of the winter had mixed with dirt and mud and had become a gray-brown color, covering the town in a bleak blanket, longing for warmth and security. There’s just this weird feeling you get in the winter--like, you’re on your own and it’s every man for himself and the bracing chill of the lip-chapping air is ready to expose you and every one of your secrets.

I guess you do need to suffer to write.

• Dr. Kantokovich would always show me pictures of the same things, obvious things: an octopus, a nurse, a clock, a lamp. Then he’d say, “What does THIS one look like?” Then I’d always say the obvious answer: an octopus, a nurse, a clock, a lamp. Then after a long period of deliberation, Dr. K would look me in the eye and say, “Same diagnosis, Chaz. You’re still crazy.” The ninth time, I said that the pictures looked like a squid (it had eight arms), a policewoman (she was dressed in white), the moon (it had numbers and hands on it), and an umbrella (there was a light bulb in it), respectively. That time, Dr. K looked me in the eye and said, “Congratulations, Chaz. You’re not crazy anymore.” Well, at least Doris the secretary wouldn’t need to give me those revolting butterscotch lollipops from now on.

• “Be quiet, I’m trying to die here.”

Dick Clark in person was much more annoying than on reruns of “Pyramid.”

• It was 5:13, and my tennis lesson began at 5:30. But Mom was still at a parent-teacher conference with my older brother’s physics teacher, Mr. Cornish. A fly crept up the ruddy high school wall and the red plastic chair I sat on in the hallway creaked. I shivered; the school was still being air-conditioned in October, and I was wearing my exercise shorts. I had developed a slight headache, realized I hadn’t brought a water bottle to hydrate myself, and the high school hallway smelled of revolting cigarettes and even more revolting bubble gum. You can see why I was frustrated.

• Astrid Alabaster and Risto Rands used to be the best of friends. Before the catastrophe with Mr. Shrimp, they used to do everything together. Yes, Astrid and Risto were inseparable--until they met Alfredo. If Alfredo Shrimp had just listened to his GPS, Charla, and taken a right turn to the highway to the city instead of making a left turn to the small town of Jimbo, Astrid and Risto still might have been friends today. But between you, me, and the newfound breeze I feel on my head, both kids still stay away from Shrimp Alfredo as well as Alfredo Shrimp.

• The noose was nigh.

• I was driving back from the airport after a business trip in Miami and there was a huge traffic jam on the highway. I called my wife and told her I would be staying at a motel for the night. I made my way onto Exit 55 and found myself in a sleepy town called Mushtree. It must have been twenty minutes before the Evening Star Motel’s fluorescent sign, followed by a flickering “VACANCY” underneath it, caught my attention. Upon parking my Toyota Solara in the small parking lot, I walked up the soiled steps of the motel and made my way through a creaky revolving door. The walls of the eerie overnight shack were adorned with various fishing hooks and rusty silver stars. I was greeted at the front desk by a harried, sinewy drunk who called himself “Snuffy.” I pointed out to “Snuffy” that his frayed nametag read “Moses” and he chased me out of the motel with his “pet broom”, screaming, “Only that scumbag who Irene cheated on me with would know my name!” Then he chucked an empty beer bottle at me, hitting me square in the head. I slipped on the wet sidewalk and landed face down in a pile of yard trimmings.

The next morning, I had an enormous migraine. I realized what had happened the night before upon spitting out dirty grass. I hope nobody had seen me. The CVS across the street caught my attention, and I decided to buy an aspirin. I went into the quaint, air-conditioned pharmacy. I passed a heavy set black woman in the cosmetics aisle who periodically glanced at me. She told me I had some schmootz on by face and proceeded to use five Kleenexes to wipe off the grass stains. I told her how much I appreciated it, but I needed an aspirin and the perfume she was wearing was making my headache worse. The woman, who had introduced herself as “Lolly,” then slapped me across the face and stormed out of the store, proclaiming to the entire shop that her grandmother had given her the perfume right before she collapsed of a “cawdy ack oh-rest.” Flustered, I speed-walked over to the pharmacy section and picked out myself some Tylenol as well as some Neosporin for the mark Lolly had made when she slapped me. Her two-inch nails had probably injected nail polish into my system.

Yeah. Some of these are baaaaaad.

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