To read part one, click here.
After a short while, the bus finally pulled up. Slowly the crowd filed onto the bus, until finally they were all on and the bus pulled away. It had a couple of other stops in town, but finally it pulled onto California Highway 140.
Af first the terrain was little different than much of the train ride had been. The sprawl of Merced gave way to the pastures, fields, and orchards of the Central Valley. However, after leaving the small town of Planada, a new thing entered his view. While barely perceptible in the morning haze, they were unmistakable along the horizon. The high peaks of the Sierra were visible.
Seeing the purple mountains in the distance stirred something in Josh. He remembered this feeling, faint though it was. It was the feeling he had felt every summer, as his family drove west on I-40 out of HIckory, North Carolina. It was a happy feeling, albeit one that was tinged with impatience. The last time he had felt anything resembling it was when he started his job. It was anticipation.
As he thought it over, he hadn’t seen mountains like this in a while. He had gone to college in Iowa, and had worked most of his time since graduation in Chicago. His parents lived in Richmond, Virginia, and he had vacationed in Florida, Las Vegas, and New York. When he had crossed mountains, it had been in the pressurized comfort of a jet. There were mountains in Las Vegas, as well as all around his home in the Bay Area. However, these were merely part of the background, as he headed off to a casino, or sat in traffic on the way to work.
After many more miles of driving, the tall peaks of the Sierra Nevada disappeared. They were still there, of course. It was just that their foothills, several thousand feet tall themselves, overtook the view. Rocky outcropping and small hills first appeared, dotting the landscape amidst cows and pistachio trees. Finally the bus started going uphill, as the once straight road became rather curvy.
The plants were still rather scrubby, although oak trees became more prevalent. The bus made a quick stop at a small village called Cathey’s Valley, and continued on through the oak trees. The bus climbed again, even if the terrain really didn’t change. The road became even curvier as it ran past Agua Fria, once a former boomtown during the gold rush. A few miles later it entered Mariposa, a small town that was also the county seat.
The bus made a few stops in the town, as it was a gateway town to Yosemite for many tourists. There were several motels in town, as well as many other businesses. Shortly they passed out of town and into pine trees. This was short lived, however, as the bus went down into a canyon. Finally the bus leveled off, as the road met the Merced River. Once more the bus climbed towards Yosemite.
Showing posts with label 500 Word Serials. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 500 Word Serials. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
500 Word Serials #2: Nature's Splendor (Part One)
It's Baaaaaack. After a long hiatus, I'm bringing back my 500 word serials. Why did it take this long? Well, I don't have a good reason, but I'll give you an excuse instead. Quite frankly, I couldn't think of a good idea, at least until the one for this story popped in there. This is inspired by my trips to Yosemite in 2004, 2009, and this past April, but also any visit I've made to nature. I guarantee the next story will be funnier.*
Josh Amberstone was tired. He wasn’t temporarily tired, in a way that a good night’s sleep would cure. He was just dead exhausted. Exhausted with life, exhausted with people, exhausted with himself.
The train ride from Oakland to the dusty central valley town of Merced had done little to cure that exhaustion. If anything it had made it worse, courtesy of the screaming infant three rows up, and his older brother who spilled the soda and hot dog when the train made a sudden lurch. Josh was glad when his stop was called, and even more so when that family stayed on. They were the problem of Fresno or Bakersfield.
As the train pulled away, Josh sighed, finding a seat to wait for the YARTS (Yosemite Area Regional Transportation System) bus. This would be his gateway to the high Sierra, and the valley known as Yosemite. His friends had suggested the park to him as a good place to relax and recharge. Josh was skeptical, wondering how some rocks, trees, and some waterfalls would help him out. Nevertheless he decided to go, taking a week off from work to fly out to California and visit this place.
I mean, it wasn’t like he hated nature. Far from it, in fact. Every year his parents would rent a cabin near the Smokies in North Carolina. When he was younger, he loved running down the hillside near the cabin, visiting the waterfalls at Deep Creek, and having picnics amid the tall trees of the Smokies. He remembered the view from atop Clingman’s Dome. Most of the time it was too hazy to see beyond 20 miles or so, but that one rare time they went up there after a front moved through, it had been gorgeous. Supposedly they could see Mount Mitchell (the highest point in Appalachians), seventy some miles in the distance. He had been twelve at the time, and the memory stuck with him.
However, as he grew up, nature and Josh had parted ways. He still was in decent shape, playing golf a couple times a week and running five miles about every day. He occasionally strolled through the woods at Forest Park in St. Louis, and often picnicked with his friends there. However, for the most part he had become a citizen of the indoors. When he actually had free time, it was spent with Netflix, his apartment couch, and the contents of his refrigerator.
Around him were other people waiting for the bus. It was an eclectic group. There was a group of retirees, enjoying each other’s company as they reminisced on previous trips to Yosemite. There were a few foreign tourists, mainly Japanese or German in origin. A few of the waiting passengers were IT professionals from Silicon Valley, out for a quick weekend trip to the valley. Obviously there were a couple of hippie wannabes, as well as a couple of earnest looking twentysomethings with well stocked backpacks. In other words, your typical Yosemite crowd.
*Guarantee void in perpetuity throughout the entirety of the Milky Way and any adjacent galaxies.
Josh Amberstone was tired. He wasn’t temporarily tired, in a way that a good night’s sleep would cure. He was just dead exhausted. Exhausted with life, exhausted with people, exhausted with himself.
The train ride from Oakland to the dusty central valley town of Merced had done little to cure that exhaustion. If anything it had made it worse, courtesy of the screaming infant three rows up, and his older brother who spilled the soda and hot dog when the train made a sudden lurch. Josh was glad when his stop was called, and even more so when that family stayed on. They were the problem of Fresno or Bakersfield.
As the train pulled away, Josh sighed, finding a seat to wait for the YARTS (Yosemite Area Regional Transportation System) bus. This would be his gateway to the high Sierra, and the valley known as Yosemite. His friends had suggested the park to him as a good place to relax and recharge. Josh was skeptical, wondering how some rocks, trees, and some waterfalls would help him out. Nevertheless he decided to go, taking a week off from work to fly out to California and visit this place.
I mean, it wasn’t like he hated nature. Far from it, in fact. Every year his parents would rent a cabin near the Smokies in North Carolina. When he was younger, he loved running down the hillside near the cabin, visiting the waterfalls at Deep Creek, and having picnics amid the tall trees of the Smokies. He remembered the view from atop Clingman’s Dome. Most of the time it was too hazy to see beyond 20 miles or so, but that one rare time they went up there after a front moved through, it had been gorgeous. Supposedly they could see Mount Mitchell (the highest point in Appalachians), seventy some miles in the distance. He had been twelve at the time, and the memory stuck with him.
However, as he grew up, nature and Josh had parted ways. He still was in decent shape, playing golf a couple times a week and running five miles about every day. He occasionally strolled through the woods at Forest Park in St. Louis, and often picnicked with his friends there. However, for the most part he had become a citizen of the indoors. When he actually had free time, it was spent with Netflix, his apartment couch, and the contents of his refrigerator.
Around him were other people waiting for the bus. It was an eclectic group. There was a group of retirees, enjoying each other’s company as they reminisced on previous trips to Yosemite. There were a few foreign tourists, mainly Japanese or German in origin. A few of the waiting passengers were IT professionals from Silicon Valley, out for a quick weekend trip to the valley. Obviously there were a couple of hippie wannabes, as well as a couple of earnest looking twentysomethings with well stocked backpacks. In other words, your typical Yosemite crowd.
*Guarantee void in perpetuity throughout the entirety of the Milky Way and any adjacent galaxies.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Blogger, Part Four
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
“So what are you writing today, “ said the old man, “the latest Tolkein wanna-be? A political thriller set during the Polk administration? Some bullshit coming of age story about a manchild and the manic pixie dream girl who completes him? God, it isn’t some story about space people and their relationship to Bob Dylan, is it?”
“No, nothing nearly that ambitious. Just blogging about movies, the outdoors, things I do.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Well, it just feels inessential, rather boring. So I went to a festival, ate some greasy sweet food, played a couple games, and listened to some music. So what, who cares what I have to say? So either I try to attach a higher purpose to the event, or go the other way and try to diminish it, hiding it in a sea of non sequiturs and The Simpsons references. The second approach, while sometimes fun, more often results in the disaster my current post is.”
“I see. Y’know what I fucking think? If something is worth writing about, give it the respect it deserves. Otherwise, leave it alone, or twat abo--”
“Tweet, it’s called tweeting”
“What the fuck ever, like I care. The point is if you are writing about real events, you should give them the respect they deserve. Sit for a few hours, think over possible angles, actually put some effort into it, for christ sake. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a new way to look at the event, something that might be interesting.”
“Wait, you think I should work at it? Why would I want to write if I had to put effort into it?”
“Ha-ha, fuckwit.”
“No, I get it, I do tend to just slap the crap up without taking time to think it through. Thanks for the help”
“My pleasure, my good man, “ said a familiar voice. It took him a second, but he realized it was his own voice that had replied.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I’m afraid you decided to disappear into your own ass, worrying about that dreadful blog post. To get yourself some perspective, you needed to create a false reality.”
“But why the crusty foul-mouthed old man?”
“Because that old fart represented authenticity to you. Had he shown up looking like Isaac Newton or Kate Winslet, you wouldn’t have bought your vision.”
“Why am I speaking to myself in the second person?”
“Because speaking in the first person sounds fucking insane. OK, now that the wisdom has been imparted, you feel free to remove your head from your ass.”
“SNRRAAKKmmmmmmm, “ said Bertram as he lifted his head from his desk. He looked around, saw he was back in his house, and that he must have dreamed the entire thing. He stood up and stretched. On the computer screen was his awful draft post. With a couple clicks he erased it. Picking up a pen and pad of paper, he went outside to start over, his head assuredly no longer up his ass.
“So what are you writing today, “ said the old man, “the latest Tolkein wanna-be? A political thriller set during the Polk administration? Some bullshit coming of age story about a manchild and the manic pixie dream girl who completes him? God, it isn’t some story about space people and their relationship to Bob Dylan, is it?”
“No, nothing nearly that ambitious. Just blogging about movies, the outdoors, things I do.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Well, it just feels inessential, rather boring. So I went to a festival, ate some greasy sweet food, played a couple games, and listened to some music. So what, who cares what I have to say? So either I try to attach a higher purpose to the event, or go the other way and try to diminish it, hiding it in a sea of non sequiturs and The Simpsons references. The second approach, while sometimes fun, more often results in the disaster my current post is.”
“I see. Y’know what I fucking think? If something is worth writing about, give it the respect it deserves. Otherwise, leave it alone, or twat abo--”
“Tweet, it’s called tweeting”
“What the fuck ever, like I care. The point is if you are writing about real events, you should give them the respect they deserve. Sit for a few hours, think over possible angles, actually put some effort into it, for christ sake. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a new way to look at the event, something that might be interesting.”
“Wait, you think I should work at it? Why would I want to write if I had to put effort into it?”
“Ha-ha, fuckwit.”
“No, I get it, I do tend to just slap the crap up without taking time to think it through. Thanks for the help”
“My pleasure, my good man, “ said a familiar voice. It took him a second, but he realized it was his own voice that had replied.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I’m afraid you decided to disappear into your own ass, worrying about that dreadful blog post. To get yourself some perspective, you needed to create a false reality.”
“But why the crusty foul-mouthed old man?”
“Because that old fart represented authenticity to you. Had he shown up looking like Isaac Newton or Kate Winslet, you wouldn’t have bought your vision.”
“Why am I speaking to myself in the second person?”
“Because speaking in the first person sounds fucking insane. OK, now that the wisdom has been imparted, you feel free to remove your head from your ass.”
“SNRRAAKKmmmmmmm, “ said Bertram as he lifted his head from his desk. He looked around, saw he was back in his house, and that he must have dreamed the entire thing. He stood up and stretched. On the computer screen was his awful draft post. With a couple clicks he erased it. Picking up a pen and pad of paper, he went outside to start over, his head assuredly no longer up his ass.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
The Blogger, Part Three
Part One | Part Two
Bertram sheepishly walked across the road, not turning around to acknowledge the driver until he reached the other side.
“Sorry, man, “ said Bertram. It was at this point he really took a look at the vehicle that had also made he day really bad. It was an old Dodge pickup, with a noisy engine, a pock-marked windshield, and more rust than paint on its body.
The driver of the truck wasn’t in much better shape. He was an old man with a long white beard and unkempt, greasy hair. He was wearing a dirty tank top, and was missing some teeth. He looked like many of the down-on-their-luck old men in the area, except for eyes betrayed a sense of fiery intelligence.
“Well, just stay out of god damn fuckin’ road next time, jackass.”
Bertram looked like he was going to add something, but instead just turned and headed down the sidewalk next to the side street. As far as he was concerned, this was all he would be seeing of that disheveled, foul-mouthed old man. And his shitty truck.
Unfortunately, fate and that old man disagreed with Bertram. Before he had made it a block up the side street, the old fart was back.
“What the hell was so god damn important that it would take priority over watching where you were fuckin’ going? Having troubles with a girl? Money issues?”
“None of your damn business, sir, but no, neither of those.”
“Sheeeit, you weren’t having writing troubles, were you. Please don’t fuckin’ say that.”
“Well, yeah, somewhat.”
“Damnit, its always with the fuckin god-damn writing troubles. You must be the fourth ‘writer’ I’ve almost killed this week. Sheeeit, fucking writing problems.”
Bertram could tell this guy had experience with writing, other than an abnormally high level of near accidents with them. Judging by how the old man had said the word “writer” he didn’t sound like a fan of them and their craft.
“Look, buddy, I know a bit about the writing game. I’ve got some time and gas to kill, hop in and we can work out your problem.”
Bertram could smell the interior of the cab, and it wasn’t pleasant. It smelled like a mixture of cheap beer, stale cigarettes, and old man BO. He wasn’t quite sure if this guy was even sober, let alone if he was sane. A reasonable person would be expected to decline the offer of help.
On most occasions Bertram was a sensible man. He rarely spoke up, rarely took the road less traveled. He paid his bills and his taxes, and didn’t complain if his food was poorly cooked. However, every once in a while, Bertram would turn off that switch in his brain that prevented taking stupid risks, and would just go with it. It’s how he had ended up self employed, how he had ended up in this small town on the eastern edge of Illinois. Sometimes you just gotta go with it.
“Why the hell not?”
To be continued...
Bertram sheepishly walked across the road, not turning around to acknowledge the driver until he reached the other side.
“Sorry, man, “ said Bertram. It was at this point he really took a look at the vehicle that had also made he day really bad. It was an old Dodge pickup, with a noisy engine, a pock-marked windshield, and more rust than paint on its body.
The driver of the truck wasn’t in much better shape. He was an old man with a long white beard and unkempt, greasy hair. He was wearing a dirty tank top, and was missing some teeth. He looked like many of the down-on-their-luck old men in the area, except for eyes betrayed a sense of fiery intelligence.
“Well, just stay out of god damn fuckin’ road next time, jackass.”
Bertram looked like he was going to add something, but instead just turned and headed down the sidewalk next to the side street. As far as he was concerned, this was all he would be seeing of that disheveled, foul-mouthed old man. And his shitty truck.
Unfortunately, fate and that old man disagreed with Bertram. Before he had made it a block up the side street, the old fart was back.
“What the hell was so god damn important that it would take priority over watching where you were fuckin’ going? Having troubles with a girl? Money issues?”
“None of your damn business, sir, but no, neither of those.”
“Sheeeit, you weren’t having writing troubles, were you. Please don’t fuckin’ say that.”
“Well, yeah, somewhat.”
“Damnit, its always with the fuckin god-damn writing troubles. You must be the fourth ‘writer’ I’ve almost killed this week. Sheeeit, fucking writing problems.”
Bertram could tell this guy had experience with writing, other than an abnormally high level of near accidents with them. Judging by how the old man had said the word “writer” he didn’t sound like a fan of them and their craft.
“Look, buddy, I know a bit about the writing game. I’ve got some time and gas to kill, hop in and we can work out your problem.”
Bertram could smell the interior of the cab, and it wasn’t pleasant. It smelled like a mixture of cheap beer, stale cigarettes, and old man BO. He wasn’t quite sure if this guy was even sober, let alone if he was sane. A reasonable person would be expected to decline the offer of help.
On most occasions Bertram was a sensible man. He rarely spoke up, rarely took the road less traveled. He paid his bills and his taxes, and didn’t complain if his food was poorly cooked. However, every once in a while, Bertram would turn off that switch in his brain that prevented taking stupid risks, and would just go with it. It’s how he had ended up self employed, how he had ended up in this small town on the eastern edge of Illinois. Sometimes you just gotta go with it.
“Why the hell not?”
To be continued...
Thursday, March 10, 2011
The Blogger, Part Two
To read part one, click here.
Stuck In Lodi Again...
When Bertram was growing up, he always thought that song referred to Lodi, Indiana, as in the front-man of the “Twin Cities” of Lodi-Silverwood. As he grew up, he thought he most likely referred to Lodi, California. Having driven through the Indiana Lodi several times, and the California one once, he was certain neither place was somewhere he’d want to be.
What Lodi the song referred to was irrelevant, as far as he was concerned. To him, the tone of the song mattered more. It represented being stuck in place as time moved forward, unable to progress, unable to figure things out. Above all it meant Bertram wasn’t sure what to do, how to rectify his current situation.
Six months ago he had quit his software development job at Illinois Business Solutions so he could focus on his own projects. Although he had kept his bills paid by freelancing and consulting work, his passion project had yet to take off. As good of a programmer as he was, he always would rather be writing instead. He wasn’t sure if he actually enjoyed it, or if the lifestyle of “research trips” and the possibility of sleeping late were the bigger draws.
He had named his blog WhimmiWazzle, and had hoped it would be a mixture of fiction, eccentric posts about happenings in the area, and occasionally earnest essays about subjects ranging from Abe Lincoln to bringing high-speed rail to Central Illinois. So far he had written a few posts about his favorite Coen Brothers and Pixar films, and how much he dislked the latest explosionarama by Michael Bay. He had made a few visits to places like Forest Glen, the Carnegie Library in Ridge Farm, and the Vermilion County Museum. The first two visits had ended up as marginally coherent posts read by his sister, a few of his friends, and his parents. The last had never resulted in anything worth posting. He got as far as trying to write the post as a homage to the Gettysburg Address, but never was satisfied with it.
So day after day, he rarely sat down to actually write. He’d read profusely, from novels and short stories to memoirs and large books about the English Civil War or the revolutions of 1848. If he wasn’t reading, he was watching his library of movies and TV shows. He rationalized this by saying it was “research”, but mostly he just enjoyed it. And if it was research, he didn’t apply it very well, as that latest monstrosity showed.
“How do I fix that piece of shit,” Bertram muttered under his breath. “It’s clearly not salvageable in its current form, but maybe there are a few ideas that can still wor--”
(HONKHONKHONKHONKSCREEEECCCHHHH!KA-THUNK!)
The sound of the car stopping broke Bertram’s trance. Now aware of his surroundings again, he realized that he was the reason the car had stopped, just a couple inches away.
“WHAT THE FUCK, MAN! WATCH WHERE YOU ARE GOING!”
To be continued...
Stuck In Lodi Again...
When Bertram was growing up, he always thought that song referred to Lodi, Indiana, as in the front-man of the “Twin Cities” of Lodi-Silverwood. As he grew up, he thought he most likely referred to Lodi, California. Having driven through the Indiana Lodi several times, and the California one once, he was certain neither place was somewhere he’d want to be.
What Lodi the song referred to was irrelevant, as far as he was concerned. To him, the tone of the song mattered more. It represented being stuck in place as time moved forward, unable to progress, unable to figure things out. Above all it meant Bertram wasn’t sure what to do, how to rectify his current situation.
Six months ago he had quit his software development job at Illinois Business Solutions so he could focus on his own projects. Although he had kept his bills paid by freelancing and consulting work, his passion project had yet to take off. As good of a programmer as he was, he always would rather be writing instead. He wasn’t sure if he actually enjoyed it, or if the lifestyle of “research trips” and the possibility of sleeping late were the bigger draws.
He had named his blog WhimmiWazzle, and had hoped it would be a mixture of fiction, eccentric posts about happenings in the area, and occasionally earnest essays about subjects ranging from Abe Lincoln to bringing high-speed rail to Central Illinois. So far he had written a few posts about his favorite Coen Brothers and Pixar films, and how much he dislked the latest explosionarama by Michael Bay. He had made a few visits to places like Forest Glen, the Carnegie Library in Ridge Farm, and the Vermilion County Museum. The first two visits had ended up as marginally coherent posts read by his sister, a few of his friends, and his parents. The last had never resulted in anything worth posting. He got as far as trying to write the post as a homage to the Gettysburg Address, but never was satisfied with it.
So day after day, he rarely sat down to actually write. He’d read profusely, from novels and short stories to memoirs and large books about the English Civil War or the revolutions of 1848. If he wasn’t reading, he was watching his library of movies and TV shows. He rationalized this by saying it was “research”, but mostly he just enjoyed it. And if it was research, he didn’t apply it very well, as that latest monstrosity showed.
“How do I fix that piece of shit,” Bertram muttered under his breath. “It’s clearly not salvageable in its current form, but maybe there are a few ideas that can still wor--”
(HONKHONKHONKHONKSCREEEECCCHHHH!KA-THUNK!)
The sound of the car stopping broke Bertram’s trance. Now aware of his surroundings again, he realized that he was the reason the car had stopped, just a couple inches away.
“WHAT THE FUCK, MAN! WATCH WHERE YOU ARE GOING!”
To be continued...
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Chocolate Frosted Sugar Serials
Note: In an effort to pretend like I can actually write, I've decided to begin a feature on this blog titled "500 Word Serials". I intend it as a homage to the old days when stories were published in periodicals and newspapers, even if they ended up later in a longer format. I have chosen 500 words because it suits the medium, and because my original ideas of 100 and 200 words seemed too short. Before I begin with the first story, I want to offer a content advisory, as this feature is rated "R" for naughty language, adult situations, aspirations to pretentiousness, and severe mountain goat instigated violence. If you work at a regressive place, are too fragile for severe winning, or just like reading bowdlerized material, please contact me and I will replace the offending language with appropriate euphemisms. And then I will laugh at you behind your back. Sorry, it's the code I live by.
Please note: all typos, grammatical errors, and incoherent plot details are purely unintentional. Unless they improve the story, than it was my intention all along. Now sit back and enjoy my first story, titled The Blogger. I know, completely unexpected, right?
“What the fuck, momatoes?”
“It’s from The Simpsons Allie, but perhaps you’re too young to remember that reference.”
Bertram was talking to his best friend of many years over the phone. He had written a draft of a blog entry, and had sent it to her to peruse before he posted it. Most of the time, she usually passed it back with a few scant recommendations. Unfortunately, this was a bad one.
“I’m three months younger than you, moran. We watched that episode together, Homer became a rogue food critic. Where the reference is from isn’t the problem, it’s the relevance.”
“Of course it’s relevant. The booths at the festival were red. Like momatoes.”
“IT WAS THE FUCKING STRAWBERRY FESTIVAL! And even if it wasn’t, your post would still be a rambling, incoherent mess. Its nothing but disconnected rants about stale shortbread, the origins of World War I, and how disappointing Jar Jar Binks was.”
“You can’t deny he was a poor substitute for Chew--”
“THE AWFUL MONSTER JAR JAR BINKS IS NOT THE ISSUE HERE! God, Bert, I’ve seen better writing than this from you. This wouldn’t be entertaining to anyone, other than those who love laughing at the insane.”
Bertram almost offered a response, but thought better of it. He looked at the screen of his laptop, the draft post still up on the screen. Just hours ago, he thought it had been an irreverent piece of “gonzo journalism” about the Salinetown Strawberry Festival. Now, he wasn’t sure if it qualified as English.
“Also, what was the deal with randomly inserting ‘Screw Fredritch’ throughout the post? I’m guessing it was another reference to that episode of The Simpsons. Of course, changing the name from Flanders to Fredritch makes you look like you have a vendetta against some random person.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll make some changes. Jeez, you don’t have to rub it in. It’s just a fucking blog that no one reads.”
“Sorry, Bert, but you’re a better writer than that. Criticising your work emphatically was the best way to get through to you. I’m sure your next draft will be better. I know being a child of the 80’s means you can’t take a shit without making a pop-culture reference, but there are better ways. More Community, less late period Family Guy. Just a bit mo--”
Allie’s voice grew softer and more muffled as she talked to someone else. The muffles grew louder and more contentious, and Bertram knew she’d be hanging up soon.
“Sorry, Bert, but I’ve gotta go. Some bullshit went down with the latest release. I don’t know, code went out that shouldn’t have. God, I hate this place sometimes. Fix it up a bit, and let me see it again. This time, a bit more fun, and a bit less insane.”
“Got it, less with the insanity. Have fun with your clusterfuck there.”
Bert hung up the phone and closed his laptop. The post would be fixed, but right now was walkabout time.
Please note: all typos, grammatical errors, and incoherent plot details are purely unintentional. Unless they improve the story, than it was my intention all along. Now sit back and enjoy my first story, titled The Blogger. I know, completely unexpected, right?
“What the fuck, momatoes?”
“It’s from The Simpsons Allie, but perhaps you’re too young to remember that reference.”
Bertram was talking to his best friend of many years over the phone. He had written a draft of a blog entry, and had sent it to her to peruse before he posted it. Most of the time, she usually passed it back with a few scant recommendations. Unfortunately, this was a bad one.
“I’m three months younger than you, moran. We watched that episode together, Homer became a rogue food critic. Where the reference is from isn’t the problem, it’s the relevance.”
“Of course it’s relevant. The booths at the festival were red. Like momatoes.”
“IT WAS THE FUCKING STRAWBERRY FESTIVAL! And even if it wasn’t, your post would still be a rambling, incoherent mess. Its nothing but disconnected rants about stale shortbread, the origins of World War I, and how disappointing Jar Jar Binks was.”
“You can’t deny he was a poor substitute for Chew--”
“THE AWFUL MONSTER JAR JAR BINKS IS NOT THE ISSUE HERE! God, Bert, I’ve seen better writing than this from you. This wouldn’t be entertaining to anyone, other than those who love laughing at the insane.”
Bertram almost offered a response, but thought better of it. He looked at the screen of his laptop, the draft post still up on the screen. Just hours ago, he thought it had been an irreverent piece of “gonzo journalism” about the Salinetown Strawberry Festival. Now, he wasn’t sure if it qualified as English.
“Also, what was the deal with randomly inserting ‘Screw Fredritch’ throughout the post? I’m guessing it was another reference to that episode of The Simpsons. Of course, changing the name from Flanders to Fredritch makes you look like you have a vendetta against some random person.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll make some changes. Jeez, you don’t have to rub it in. It’s just a fucking blog that no one reads.”
“Sorry, Bert, but you’re a better writer than that. Criticising your work emphatically was the best way to get through to you. I’m sure your next draft will be better. I know being a child of the 80’s means you can’t take a shit without making a pop-culture reference, but there are better ways. More Community, less late period Family Guy. Just a bit mo--”
Allie’s voice grew softer and more muffled as she talked to someone else. The muffles grew louder and more contentious, and Bertram knew she’d be hanging up soon.
“Sorry, Bert, but I’ve gotta go. Some bullshit went down with the latest release. I don’t know, code went out that shouldn’t have. God, I hate this place sometimes. Fix it up a bit, and let me see it again. This time, a bit more fun, and a bit less insane.”
“Got it, less with the insanity. Have fun with your clusterfuck there.”
Bert hung up the phone and closed his laptop. The post would be fixed, but right now was walkabout time.
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