Ad-diction – Friday Fictioneers

A couple things before the story:

First of all, I’ve just launched a t-shirt line called Fiction T’s, which have some of the Green-Walled Tower’s best flash fiction on the back. There are a few Friday Fictioneers stories among them as well. Check out the store here, or click on this link to see the post about them. Reblog or share that post before next Wednesday and I will enter you to win one of the shirts.

Fiction Tees Logo 2

Second, last weekend I took a trip down to Kansas City and met with Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and Marie Gail Stratford. It was a great chance to chat about writing and other random things. Hopefully I can get the chance to meet other Fictioneers down the road sometime.

FF meeting

Now, on with the story. I waffled a lot on this picture before settling on this story. Click the links if you don’t get the references.

copyright Santoshwriter

copyright Santoshwriter


I did the Dew.” His hands trembled. “Nike made me. ‘Just do it,’ they kept whispering.

“Volkswagen told me to Think Small, so I sold my house and lived in a cardboard box. IMAX told me to Think Big, so now I live in a refrigerator box. I only eat McDonald’s hamburgers.”

“Because you’re loving it?”

He nodded. “I ate 82 yesterday.”

“That’s impossible.”

Impossible is nothing.” He shuddered. “I need help.”

“I might not be the best one for that,” I said, producing a brochure. “But if you get a car again, remember: you’re in good hands with Allstate.”


Fiction T’s are here!

**Reblog or share this post for a chance to win a Fiction T shirt of your choosing! Details below**

Fiction Tees Logo 2

These days, everyone on the Internet wants to gain a following. Now with Fiction T’s, that is easier than ever as people follow behind you trying to read the story on the back of your t-shirt.

Fiction T’s takes the best and quirkiest of the Green-Walled Tower’s short fiction and puts it on a t-shirt, available through Spreadshirt. 8 designs are currently offered, each in both black and white text so that dark and light colored shirts are available.

Promotion 1

Some examples of the stories:

Classic Arguments: Literary classics argue after the library closes. There is a definite winner. A great shirt for avid readers out there.

The Physics of Angels: A mother with a migraine tries to explain how an airplane stays up…creatively. Perfect for parents with young kids.

Three Men Walk into a Bar: It might be a joke, but it’s not what you think. A great one for bloggers.

She Did, He Did: A quirky look at the relationships between men and women. This guy just can’t win.

Emoticons with a Story: The back stories of some of your lesser known emoticons. Comes in two versions.

The Last Few Seconds: A humorous look at the last few seconds before retirement. The perfect gift for anyone in retirement or about to retire.

What a Metaphor is: A soaring, twisting journey through a maze of metaphorical language.


Limited Time Promotion!

Reblog this post and I will enter you in a drawing for one of two Fiction T shirts I am giving away. That goes for shares and tweets on Facebook and Twitter as well (use the hashtag #fictionts). Share it on all three platforms and I’ll enter you 3 times (but that’s the max).
Contest ends on Wednesday, May 27, 2015. Share the good news and order a shirt for yourself, while you’re at it.

The Worst Thing About Skeletons

The Worst Thing About Skeletons

The worst thing about skeletons is that they’re heartless. It’s also true that they don’t have an ounce of bile in them, but this hardly makes up for it. I’ve only known one skeleton and he drove the ice cream truck that prowled my neighborhood like a jangling Jaws.

Tinkle tinkle tinkle

I was mowing the lawn one day when I heard the truck coming. The sound make the image of frosty popsicles and drippy ice cream sandwiches rise like mirages in my heat-addled mind. The truck pulled up and stopped next to me.

“Hey Mort,” I said.

“Hot day, isn’t it?” the skeleton said, leaning out, the afternoon sun gleaming on pearly white bone where his heart should have been.

“I’m on a diet,” I said. “You know that.” I’d been off ice cream for over 50 days. Ice Cream Anonymous had even given me a chip.

“For old time’s sake?” Mort said, holding out a Fudgsicle to me.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” I said, then had an idea. “Okay, fine. I’ll have one . . . when you gain one pound. How much do you weigh now?”

“17 pounds,” he said.

“Prove it,” I said. He came into the house and weighed himself: 17 pounds, 2 ounces. “The day you’re 18 pounds, 2 ounces, I’ll have an ice cream,” I said.

“No problem,” he said, grinning with all his teeth.

I saw him later that week, stocking up on calcium pills. Two weeks later, he stopped by. “I’m up 3 ounces,” he declared proudly. A month later, he’d made it up to 17 pounds 7 ounces. I wasn’t very worried.

The next week Mort showed up at my door. He was wearing a coat, which was odd for him. He usually only wore a coat in the fall to keep errant leaves from sticking in his rib cage.

“I’ve gained a pound,” he said quietly. “I’m 18 pounds 2 ounces now.”

“Really?” I looked hard at him. His bones didn’t look any thicker. I wondered vaguely if he’d gotten a brain.

He opened his coat. “I got a heart,” he said. I saw it sitting in his rib cage, pumping idly in a self-conscious way, like a shadow boxer who suddenly finds himself the main event.

“Fine, you won.” I fingered the 100-day chip in my pocket sadly.

“I’m sorry for before,” Mort said. “I didn’t understand.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a peeled apple perched on a cone of wrapped kale. “Snack?”

A Bad Car Dynamic – Friday Fictioneers

copyright Marie Gail Stratford

copyright Marie Gail Stratford

“You’re awful,” I said to my wife in the passenger seat.

“You’re boring,” she shot back.

“Cretin,” I said.

Ten minutes later we were both in tears.

“You,” I shouted, “are an awful, bitchy, crass, dead-eyed, elephant-eared, flappy-lipped, gout-ridden, horse-faced, idiotic, jackass of a keg-guzzling, low-browed, monkey-brained, ninny-hammered, oafish, pachydermal, quarter-ton, rank-odored, skanky, troll-footed, uncultured, vacuous, wasp-hearted, xenophobic, yellow-bellied zombie!”

My wife was pounding the dashboard. “Stop!” she cried. “I can’t breathe.” She wiped her eyes, still laughing. “How much farther?”

“Still 315 miles to Dodge City.”

“Another game?”

The Kansas miles rolled slowly by, each exactly like the previous.


A Mother’s Revenge

Happy Mother’s Day, only two days late. This story is fiction and any resemblance to real life is coincidence. This story is not about me, especially since the narrator is female.

I was a terrible kid when I was young. My mother was half-way to sainthood, in that she was as patient as Job and I almost sent her to an early grave.

It wasn’t really that I was bad, I was just . . . creative. Which is why the police brought me home after I chased my friends down the road with a hammer. I tried to explain hammer tag to my parents, but they just grounded me. I didn’t want to be grounded, so I threw all my bedding and clothes out the window. I was planning on running away and wanted a soft place to land when I jumped out my window. My parents never understood the logic behind what I did; they just sighed, put the clothes in the laundry, and then grounded me longer.

It wasn’t until I grew up that I realized how much of a pain I had been to my poor parents.

“I’m sorry for how difficult I was when I was a kid,” I told my mother once, over tea soon after I got pregnant with my first baby.

“Oh, we got through it,” she said with a smile. Then she stopped and leaned in. “I hope you have one just like you.”

“Mom, that’s mean of you,” I said, trying to laugh it off. She just kept smiling and stirred her tea, a look of vengeful triumph in her eyes.

My husband and I soon moved to Papua New Guinea to work with a NGO. We came back once every two years or so and although we spoke on Skype, my mother didn’t really get to know my two girls very well until we moved back again, when my oldest daughter Alice was six and my youngest Emily was four.

“So, how are the girls?” she would ask sometimes in our long-distance chats. “Quite a handful, I’m sure.”

“They’re fine,” I said, but I could tell by her close examination that she was looking for stress lines on my face.

*        *        *

“I’m sure you girls get into trouble all the time, right?” my mother asked. We were back in the States and sitting around the kitchen table with the girls. They looked at each other and shook their heads.

“Well, would you like a snack?” she asked, undeterred. “I have pixy sticks, and Coke to drink.”

“Do you have any carrot sticks?” Alice asked.

“Maybe an apple?” Emily added. My mother pursed her lips and got the snacks.

The next day I caught her trying to teach her granddaughters hammer tag. “This is too dangerous,” Emily said just before I intervened. I shooed them away and they went and sat in the sandbox and pretended they were highway engineers about to build a new bypass.

“I know what you’re doing,” I said. “You’re trying to make they behave badly to get back at me.”

“Are these really your kids?” she asked. “It’s not fair. I had to put up with you and you get two perfect angels.”

“Maybe it’s Trevor’s genes?” I said, referring to my husband.

“No, I’ve talked to his mother and he was a hellion when he was young too,” she said. “It’s just not fair.”

“You just got to accept it. The world isn’t fair.”

“I guess not.”

“Just promise me one thing.”


I leaned in. “Don’t try to teach them hammer tag again.”

She was about to accept, then crossed her arms. “How are you going to know?”

“They’ll tell on you,” I said.

She nodded sadly. “You’re probably right.”

Good Times at the Water Cooler – Friday Fictioneers

copyright Madison Woods

copyright Madison Woods

Our company was crashing hard when the head of my department rage-quit, switching our water cooler with a beer keg before he left.

HR found out . . . and started stopping by for a 10am pick-me-up. The company grapevines lit up and soon we were like the popular frat house of the company. I started answering morning emails to the hammering thud of techno music blaring over the cubicles. On Friday I had to step over the passed out CFO on the way to the bathroom.

Productivity plummeted.

That quarter, our profits skyrocketed. Turns out, productivity had been our problem all along.


Anchorite – Friday Fictioneers

Copyright Dee Lovering

Copyright Dee Lovering


I climbed that pillar

to meet God, hungering

and thirsting after

righteousness until

nothing but

ragged flesh covered

my naked soul.

“What a self-righteous prig. Holier than thou? Holier than Moses, that one. He finally got fed up with us sinners and climbed up to get away. We’d yell, ‘Met God yet?’”

I met God and

He betrayed me.

I wanted to

stay but He

wouldn’t let me.

“Go back,” He said.

“I was there when he climbed down. I was going to jeer but then I saw the tears. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. I didn’t know what to say.”


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