Baad Shoes

Slung around Blambi’s fleecey neck is a strap that supports a blue basket with a pink flower etched on the front. Little Tweetsie, Blambi’s main chick, is perched in the basket. She is his first and only love. They are runaways. Neither of their families approve of their pairing. They are too different, from two different barnyards. It is just not right, they claim. Continue reading

Ahead on a Stick

It’s not just an ordinary day in the ‘hood. Today is the First Annual Race-o-Rama on Washington St., in a neighborhood of single, and mostly, multifamily homes. Their peeling paint and chipped shingles, a consequence of the past rough winter and general lack of funds, do not faze the merriment of the ragtag bunch. The kids range in age from nine to fourteen. There are about a dozen of them, half in the audience, while the others are getting ready to motor up in their unique makeshift racers.

Image by Freedigitalphotos.net

Image courtesy of Vlado from Freedigitalphotos.net

Lamont “LeMans” revs up his mini-roadster, powered by his short legs. Ramon “The Main Rain Man” can barely keep still, poised to pedal his trike. “Cuz” Chondelle is riding high on his pogo stick. Their older siblings are lined alongside them; one on a bike, another on a unicycle and a third on a skateboard. They all eye the finish line ahead.

“You getting this on tape, Clarice?” Delroy asks. “It’s for pos-ter-ee-tee.” He calls out to the girl holding up a smartphone with a cracked screen.

“You been reading again, Del-boy?” Royale chortles.

Delroy shoots him an “eat my shorts” look and hunches down to get set as Sharlayne primes the group, “When you see my gun go off, that means go.” She is holding up an orange-colored water blaster, which she squirts at the group.

The kids watching laugh as the group, poised to race, are momentarily startled as water sprays them. “You’re supposed to aim it up in the air, wonder brain,” Royale yells as he wipes off the water from his face. He gets soaked the most because he is the closest to Sharlayne.

“Well, you sure aren’t ‘cuz you’re still crying about a little water. Get going.”

Now Lamont is head to head with Ramon, while Delroy whizzes past them. But Chondelle surprises all as he overtakes them.

“Whoa, there goes Chondelle almost lick the dust, but now he’s ahead on a stick . . . yeah . . .” one of the kids watching starts to rap out a song in honor of the frontrunner. Suddenly, two cars seeming to race with each other careen by them. A gun shot in the air. Chondelle in the lead crashes to the ground. The kids scream as the two cars speed away, long gone.

It turns out to be just another ordinary day in the ‘hood.

©2015 Karina Pinella

Please Pass the Sheep Butt

Ages ago I drove more than 10 miles just to look at a free-range chicken. It wasn’t even a live one; it was frozen. Those were the times when antibiotic-free meat or chicken was a rarity. It would cost an arm and a leg to buy a lean, but clean chicken that wasn’t an antibiotic addict. As a student with no cash flow at the time, I could only stare at the chicken and weighed the costs in my head. Do I spend the rest of the day panhandling for a healthy meal, or do I go back home and eat whatever there is and do my homework? Continue reading

At Any Length

Evan hides behind his fifth eye because he’s shy. He wears his button down shirt that’s a glimpse short in the cuffs. The bottom of his pants tends to cling to his polyester socks. The black horn-rimmed glasses he wears is the original pair his grandfather wore when he was younger way back when. Some would say Evan has no fashion sense, but he wouldn’t care because he’s too wrapped up in his hobby. He likes to take pictures and longs for an audience to view them. For now, the only one who seems to show a semblance of interest is Marcy, the only co-worker who gives him the time of day.

Image contributed by bloggeta

Image contributed by bloggeta

He stops by her desk on his way to get more copy paper for the printer. “Hey, Marcy, want to see my father’s vegetable garden?” Evan swipes on his Android to show her the photo gallery of the different variety of squashes, eggplants, and cucumbers he composed last night.

“Cool. They’re awesome.”

“I really appreciate your kind words, Marcy. Someday I’d like to have an exhibit. But instead of frames hanging on walls, I would have one huge monitor that I would swipe with a special wand so I can see the people’s faces looking at each shot.”

Marcy nods and says, “Speaking of monitors, I better get going before Bob comes here and gives me a hard time.” She motions her head toward Bob’s direction, which makes Evan turn around, so she swivels to face her computer. When Evan turns back her way, she is busily clicking on her mouse. He puts away his smartphone and returns to the task of getting a ream of copy paper. Just then his smartphone vibrates, indicating that it is lunchtime.

He decides to table the task and go back to his desk to retrieve his gym bag. His parents gave him a gym membership as a Christmas present last year, and six months into the new year now, he has yet to use it. Last night while organizing photos on his smartphone, they told him he had better start going now, or they won’t give him any more presents.

The gym is only a subway stop away from his office, so he gets there quickly enough. He changes and decides to walk briskly on the treadmill to start. After about 10 minutes, he gets tired and decides to do some exercises on the machines, following the instructions posted on each one. After about 15 minutes of trying out the different mechanisms, he heads back to the locker room and takes a shower. As he soaps under his arms, a repeating electronic siren sounds off, with each round escalating in loudness. He is momentarily stunned and quickly scrambles out of the stall. People around him are grabbing their clothes and putting them on. A man comes in and shouts, “Everyone out now! Please exit to the door behind me.”

Although Evan has opened his locker door, he hears the man shout again, “Everyone out now.” Still feeling disoriented, Evan’s first thought is to rescue his Android out of the locker. He then runs out of the locker room in a panic. Once outside, he realizes he’s wearing no clothes. The poor sap is in his full glory with only a smartphone screening his groin. His back is against the wall of the building. That’s when he gets an epiphany and powers up his phone. He opens his photo gallery app and, with the smartphone still shielding his genitalia, the screen showing outward, he flashes his shots to the people who are starting to notice him and looking below his waist.

He’s got their attention. This is his moment. He swipes through his screen to show off the variety of colorful vegetables he arranged the night before. He further enlarges the pictures to better fill his 5 ½” screen.

“Hey, bud, is that an iPud?”

Evan ignores the snide remark and hears only music in his ears when someone exclaims, “Wow! Look at the size of that zucchini.”

©2015 Karina Pinella

In the Flesh

Image by FreeImages.com/sardinelly

Image by FreeImages.com/sardinelly

A short stack of dried human skin trimmed into 8 ½” x 11” pages sat on the desk as Walter Penn pondered on his next flesh fiction. He considered the title, Flayed Minion, in memory of the owner who was formerly bound by the parchment on which he will now scribe with maroon lettering. His ink flowed through a special pen cartridge connected to a tube attached to a hypodermic needle full of citric acid solution, mixed with blood from an unwilling human aorta donor. Continue reading

Straight Face to Straitjacket

Clowns abound and they can be found in the work place too. I remember one in particular from several jobs ago. I’ll call him Bozo so I won’t be sued. He worked harder to make my boss laugh than he did doing his job as an individual contributor. I think it was because my boss had a reputation of being a prig with a sprig up his thingamajig. That he had only one expression—straight faced—gave Bozo a challenge he didn’t find while working in Accounts Receivable.

A brief about my boss—it was rumored that he was born at the Company*, where he started at the ground level and after throwing people under the bus and stabbing their backs, he eventually pulled himself up to VP class. He was not in the corner office just yet, although he made it clear to those who counted that he would rule from there some day. (Last time I heard he is still eyeing that carpeted real estate.) Continue reading

Bro’, You Heavy

My bro’ is stew, or in the sewers. I am sorry for what I did, but I was tired.

Bub, my bro’, weighed a ton. For breakfast, he would eat six bowls of Honey Monster Puffs, five fried eggs, four strawberry Pop-Tarts, three buttered waffles, two thick slabs of bacon, and a partridge in a pear tree. I exaggerate. He did not eat the tree. I will not bother writing the rest of what he would eat during the rest of the day; it will just make my journal look like a grocery list. And remind me how close to broke I was getting because food is not getting cheaper. It is a good thing I get to take home some leftovers from Hog Heaven, where I wash dishes and bus tables. I also get a 10% discount at the Food Mart, where I stock the shelves three days a week.
Continue reading

The Face

Fancy Pants Andy they call him behind his back. He wears suits designed by the likes of Hugo Boss and Calvin Klein. He sits behind the Cherry polished wood reception desk that is set low, as the slate gray wall behind him prominently displays the occupants: Georges, Mason, Twissler & Krane, LLP, Attorneys-at-Law. The much sought after services of the firm’s Ivy League of attorneys make Andy’s job challenging meeting and greeting clients. But on this particular day, more than the usual amount of litigious clients have been coming in. Continue reading

From F to 100%

When my kids were just learning their abc’s and 1, 2, 3s, I thought I’d go back to school to get a third degree. I was burnt out at my then current part-time job. For almost two years, I had my fill of filing, printing out flyers, and inserting brochures in folders. So many forms, folios, ad nauseam. I actually thought the company I worked for owned acres of forests.

I had an epiphany one slow Wednesday afternoon. While the clock ticked and the rain drummed outside, I had jerked myself awake just before my face thudded down my desk. I had to reorient myself and saw the stack of folders I had yet to fill. Suddenly a vision appeared before me: I was entering my home, calling out, “Honey, I have work to do tonight. Will you be okay with pot roast and baked potatoes instead of the lamb de flambé and scalloped little potatoes and crème de brulee? I have to fill 200 folders by tomorrow.” Continue reading