The Color Of Hunger

Archive for the ‘My Short Stories’ Category

I stumbled inside the dinky 7-11 packing two bright yellow squirt guns as my heat. Despite the dizzy feet and double-vision that now had a hold of me, I was still functional enough to know that fate was doom at this point. However, most of my conscience had now been dissolved thanks to some cheap vodka and a nasty break-up a few hours earlier. How the hell was I supposed to know there’s a difference between the Eagles and the Falcons? They’re both birds for Christ’s sake. Maybe I got a bit carried away when I chucked that wine glass, but our Valentine’s dinner should NOT be second in line to a god damn sports broadcast. Besides, we live thousands of miles away from Canada. Who needs a Canadian football team as their favorite? Love yer own city, Barry. Traitor.

“Did you need something miss?” Judging by the cold and bitter tone behind the cash register, I apparently had gotten lost in thought again. Fuck, how long have I been standing here? Long enough. “Gimme the special of the day….and spare me the bullshit.” I revealed my tiny sidekicks, resting their triggers against my pointer fingers.

I couldn’t tell if this guy was laughing or in panic. Millions of tiny wrinkles divided his face in such a patterned way, it looked as if I could peel pieces of skin from his cheekbones and form my own little jigsaw puzzle. (Shudder, shudder.) Beneath the layers of aging epidermis, I managed to make out a toothless grin, that to this day still makes me wish God had spared me a gag reflex. He slowly lifted his veiny left hand from underneath the counter and pulled out a gun of his own. Only his was shiny and didn’t leak when you tilted it sideways. “Yer toast, bitch”, he uttered, murdering syllables as he spoke them.

Shock set in, but not so much as to paralyze. Luckily, Mom had been right about increased agility via Wii Tennis. And luckily, this time I had listened. Dodging the first shell was like being on the receiving end of a doubles match with the Williams’ sisters. With no partner. Minus a racket. Shhhhewww! (A near hit.) Wicked speed encased in stainless steel proved to be my toughest enemy yet. And I thought Barry was bad.

(To be continued….maybe….haha.)

Hi. My name is Sam. I carry my vacuum everywhere I go. His name is Beaner. Beaner has these wicked little claws that come out from under him whenever I find one a’ those pesky Snow-Mamas in my yard. Beaner gets the job done right, too. No prisoners, ohhhh no.
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Like this one time, a Snow-Mama and her child had made refuge in the east corner of my front yard. I think that damn neighbor kid Henry might have made ’em. Bastard. Anyways, I fired up ol’ Beaner and dismembered that Snow-Mama.
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Her child was awfully cute though, so I had my way with her. Repeatedly. In my yard. In the middle of December. She kept screaming, “Stop! Get away!, but I think that was just because when I switched to doggy-style, she caught a glimpse of her mother’s puddle on the ground. She’ll get over it though. They always do.
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Hi my name is Sam. And I rape Snow-Babies.

One foggy Friday night, walking home from my performance with the Rolling Stones (we were in NYC that night), I heard a noise to my left, somewhere beneath the twisted twigs and branches of this old maple tree. It was really dark, and I couldn’t see anything, so using my wicked awesome telekinesis skills, I contortioned the streetlamp (imagine the Pixar lamp) so it would face the maple tree. As I did, Kermit the Frog leaped out at me from behind, a bottle of chloroform in one hand and a balled up handkerchief in the other. He knocked me out cold almost instantly. The last thing I remember was the evil smile on Mrs. Piggy’s wrinkly face, and her snorting violently as she slowly emerged from under that maple tree.
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When I finally regained consciousness, I found myself strapped down with miles and miles of bungee cord pinning me to this 500 foot red rocket. Twisting my head around, I managed to catch a glimpse of the name of this gigantic monster that now held my life in its hands…..or bungee cords. “Squatting Turtle”. Great, I thought to myself. Death is going to find my charred remains somewhere up in outer space attached to a red rocket called “Squatting Turtle”.  Lovely.
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Still very much confused on this whole situation, I tried to make some sense out of it. However, I couldn’t understand why this crazy little frog along with his pig-of-a-sidekick, had buckled himself in right next to me. Seeing the absurd expression on my face, he half-smiled at me and exclaimed out of the side of his mouth, “We’re gonna go visit Mars, my friend!” Before I could ask why in the aych-e-double hockey sticks I was the chosen companion on this insane mission, the rocket’s double piston engines gave an ear-shattering screech and began to slowly propel upward into the darkness.
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Highly opposing this whole “space” idea, I yet again used my wicked awesome telekinesis skills to loosen the bungee cords tightened uncomfortably around my wrists, making sure that these 2 lunatics on the sides of me were still glued to this reddish beast. After about 7-8 seconds, I fell from the rocket into an acre of soft cozy cotton trees below. Dusting these cotton balls off the ripped cuffs of my favorite jeans, I glanced up to see Kermit and Mrs. Piggy staring down at me, disappointment and regret lingering on their faces. The only thing I thought to do was wave goodbye. And so I did. Farewell my crazy friends, farewell.


Spokane, WA. 26 years young. Aquarius, of course. I am a very optimistic individual driven by passion and creativity. Music is my inspiration to everything. I dig the nightlife. I enjoy discovering new craft beers and breweries. I like animals more than humans. The ocean is amazing. I have no idea what I wanna do with my life and prolly never will. But I'm going to succeed because I'm crazy enough to think I can.
August 2017
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