Category Archives: writing

Limerick: The Magician From Crewe

There was a magician from Crewe

Who claimed to be female on cue.

When was asked on the trick,

He whence chopped off his dick,

And proclaimed, “Now I am a girl true!”

(Inspired by The Daily Prompt)


Writing Prompt: The Dark Time

“I really don’t get,” said Reena, as she slathered her hands with lotion, “why dark is always associated with evil, and light is always associated with good. Did you ever think about that, Neeza?”

“Not really,” came Neeza’s reply. She was still powdering her cheeks a deep fuchsia pink. “It’s one of those things you just don’t have to think about, you know. It’s one of those obvious things.”

“Well, I just think it’s kinda… prejudicial?”

Neeza rolled her eyes. “Here we go again.” She dipped her wand into her mascara bottle. It made a slosh-slosh bubble sound. “Not everything is racist, you know.”

“I’m not talking about race, Ms. You Know. You know? You know? That’s the 57th you-know you’ve said in an hour– you know. I’ve been keeping count.”

“Pssh. You’re exaggerating, as usual.”

“So, anyway,” Reena examined herself on the mirror, sticking out her tongue when she found her reflection unsatisfactory, “why do we not question the things that we were taught as kids? Why do we just accept them as-is? Shouldn’t we think about them a bit more? Because there’s a chance some of them might be wrong.”

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Pizza Delivery (short story)

“Okay, where the hell is that goddamn pizza? It’s been–” Willie checked his watch, a battered, baby-blue leather analog watch that he had gotten on his tenth birthday some fifteen years ago, “forty… thirty-three minutes. They said they’ll be here in thirty.” He pounded his huge fist onto the television, an old CRT, “I’m fucking starving, goddammit!” shaking the image momentarily into a blur of white lines and threatening to destroy the 90’s artifact once and for all.

“Oy, hey!” Reggie yelled in protest, finally looking up at Willie, the first time in four hours that he had taken his eyes off the ancient screen. “What the hell, man?”


“That’s my grandma’s TV, man! She gave it to me before she died, you know.”

“Yeah, well, your grandma was a good woman, and may she rest in peace. And fuck her, and her bad TV, and fuck her grandson, too!”

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The Prank (short story)

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy– Shit!”

The crowd gasped and murmured and tsk-tsked among themselves, while the officiating priest, apparently yet oblivious to his verbal faux pas, tried to wipe with his big white kerchief what looked like bird poo off his face.

Meanwhile, from way behind the crowd, from behind a tree where he thought no one could see him, Frankie strepitously laughed and howled from the depths of his belly until his sides ached and made him cry. Little did he know that throughout all this, from the time he rigged a fake bird’s nest on the branch above the priest’s head, to the time he activated the trap with a remote controlled switch (finally, all those engineering classes, which he had thought pointless and soporific and through which he had breezed through with no more than a C, had proved some worth), setting loose the thick white goo on the fat bald cleric, someone had been watching him, and who finally spoke:

“Thought that was funny, child? What you did to that poor old priest?”

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Young Forever (short story)

Mrs. Oferween examined her face on the mirror. Every wrinkle, every dimple, every pockmark, every curve and every fold, she scrutinized with as much precision as an expert geologist reconnoitering some terra incognita for its potential for a new development, and she, involuntarily, frowned.

“Damn, not another wrinkle!” she growled in frustration. It takes 47 muscles to frown, she pounded once again into her head. With great effort, and struggling not to make the mistake of scrunching up her skin again, she forced her face back into a blank expression. The resting bitch face. Some reality TV star in her 30s had recommended it as a way of preventing the creation of wrinkles.

But Mrs. Oferween was pushing 60 now, and even with her diligent use of creams and toners and moisturizers laden with Omega-3 fatty acids and Vitamin C and antioxidants with ginseng and gold powder and quantum age nourishment, the natural curse of aging had taken its toll on her face and on her body, and it showed. There was no hiding the little creases here and there, the crow’s feet sprouting quickly from the corners of her eyes, which were now with evidently lighter irises covered in a layer of translucent goo, the beginnings of what could turn out to be cataracts. Her eyebags were saggier now, and so was the skin on her neck, and her breasts, which were round and perky some three decades ago, were also losing their battle with gravity.

Mrs. Oferween closed her eyes. She could no longer recognize the face in the mirror, even though she had examined it last only yesterday. It was as though the image on the mirror was that of a stranger — some older, uglier, more frightening stranger. A monster. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t her at all. In her mind’s eye, she still looked as beautiful as she did three decades ago, back when men chased her and gave in to her every whim. Back when it seemed as though her beauty and her power would last forever.

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