The Adventures of Fiona Bemoana

I’ve been watching a lot of Netflix lately while in recovery mode. Either nothing is truly funny or my sense of humor is WAY out there. This post will be about what my humorless existence has brought me to.

Armed with truth serum, Fiona Bemoana stepped out into the world and fell flat on her acetonic begonias. This would have been alright were they not positioned right beside a squawking gander wandering out of his normal realm to artistically contribute to the finesse of goo.

Fiona Bemoana felt the goose’s goose through every deliberate piece of clothing fashioned for just such an occasion, should such an occasion occur. This, of course, sent her into a tailspin (or would it be rump-spin, not to be confused with Rumplestiltskin), which only further endangered her acetonic begonias and their fleeting carnivorous colors.

Finally, with a great lift–aided much by a sound of a gaseous nature and the gander’s returning onslaught–Fiona Bemoana stood up and brushed herself off. Luckily, the truth serum remained intact, despite its tactless polyester blended carrying case of quilting scraps tacked together. She attacked the sidewalk with tactical maneuvers and soon was on her way toward the center of town where she was held up by a line of horse jockeys carrying tack across the intersection one piece at a time. Obviously new tactics were desperately needed. Two tried to tackle her when they learned of her precious cargo.

Fiona Bemoana, our heroine in distress, crossed the street in a bovine zone and soon outwitted even the cleverest of villians, CHAROLAIS DEVON, a well RED DANISH, who claimed he was HERE-FOR-D LIMOUSIN’s. (Cow talk for you non-boviners). Ah, but in the midst of crossing, Fiona encountered a passing troupe of circus cows playing the blues upon their LONGHORNS and SHORTHORNS, and that’s the long and short of it. With great DEXTER-ity, she managed to scramble out of the way in time, making sure to yell, “MOOOve over for others.” Her remark was not received well. It’s udder-ly impossible to describe its implications on the cow clowns who milked every comment they herd for what it was worth, despite cheesy implications. They did however chew her out with cudding.

Time–and space in my blog–was running out. Desperate to reach the absolutely, positively, most important person in town (and I mean, THE. ABSOLUTELY. POSITIVELY. MOST. IMPORTANT. PERSON. IN. TOWN.), Fiona Bemoana strapped up her big girl pants, they were dragging the ground but they fit over four outfits, and ran. Well, really it was more of a cantering sauntering sometimes somersaulting movement type of thing. We’ll call it a dance. Maybe she picked it up from “Dancing With the Stars.”

With fifty seconds–and fifty words–to spare, Fiona Bemoana arrived at her destination. She pulled out the truth serum and handed it to the people who desperately needed it:  test audiences for sitcoms and movies of a comedic nature. All this so they could indeed speak the truth to the execs and producers and tell the world that the productions they had watched were indeed, “not funny.”


Eastern Wild’s Extreme Racing

A fictional piece written for my writer’s group. Enjoy the nonsensical.

The crowd of spectators grew restless as the days progressed with still no sign of any contestants crossing the finish line for the Pacific Northwest’s Extreme Race across the Eastern Wild and back.  People waves crashed sporadically along the metal stands, all hoping to appear on the NASA-sized digital screen across the raceway. The camera crew swung from swings attached above the covered rows of seats, panning the crowd and scanning the horizon for signs of returning contestants.

The morning of the race the ten competing teams gloriously poised at the start line, each struggling to control their animals—some literally. Team number four, for instance, had to reign in their rhino-raffetah, a stem-celled masterpiece of cross breeding and counter cloning of a rhinoceros, giraffe and cheetah. Likewise, team seven’s herd of reindeered brushchomp-scapods nearly upset team three’s scorpionic tail, which could have resulted in the whole race being canceled due to its targeted stinging capabilities. The brushchomp-scapods were whipped back into place and the blasting flare was sounded. The teams were off.

They entered the Eastern Wild where each would fight for their life through the brambled blackberry misery that only true Northwesterners can understand. The Eastern Wild had not been entered in over four decades. Team nine quickly took the lead, pedaling their beaver-toothed tracking-tor across the terrain. A member of team five fell out of their mechanical stork-legged wicker basket and was immediately swallowed up by the well-armored, quick-growing bramble. The spectators heard him scream from the distant stands.

The reindeered brushchomp-scapods were faring well but their bellies jammed repeatedly and eventually failed altogether. Team two’s metallic mammal had a magnetic malfunction and managed to tangle with team one’s octo-gator. Five teams remained. They all kept a good distance between them and managed to stay in the race for over eight hours. Alas, team four’s rhino-raffetah collapsed soon after, once again exposing the flaws of a cellious biological approach to the race. Team nine’s beaver-toothed tracking-tor could’ve won but for the ravine they saw too late.

Team six’s shield of enhanced chemiological mist failed on their cobraic-crowned serpentiar, leaving them all choked up in multiple ways. Team ten persevered through the Eastern Wild’s brambly nightmare. However, the scotch broom forest beyond proved too much for their wearied bite-o-metric scissor-a-saurus.

In the end it was team eight who emerged victorious from the Eastern Wild days later. The least favored of all, team eight’s simplistic and natural approach showed the urban crowd that the Eastern Wild could be tamed with merely a compass, a small herd of goats, and two men with a tarp to keep the rain off during the long, monotonous days of munching goats.


Flash Fiction Friday–Among the Redwoods

Leeanna passed through the trees, a mere shadow amongst the towering redwoods dozens of feet above. She often wandered this very path on days when everything seemed to slip sideways and nothing could be grasped nor understood. The path seemed to almost remember her.

Crescent City, California might as well be light years away when Leeanna walked here. Up ahead a pine cone dropped to the forest floor. She stooped for it, feeling its rough ridges and coarse texture with her fingers. Today she wrestled with purpose once again. If only she had gotten a different degree, if only she had stuck longer with the one professional job she’d had in a line of dead beat, dead end jobs, if only she had been made differently, more conformed to the fast-paced world around her.

She had read somewhere that only 7% of the redwood pine cone seeds actually resulted in a tree. The object in her hand was very likely sterile, just as her life felt. Still there was a chance it could produce a tree, and some day, perhaps hundreds of years from now, it too would tower with the others above her, long after her own journey had ended.

A sharp breeze carried a slight smell of the ocean. Just for fun she held the pine cone up to her ear, wondering if it would sound of the forest, like a shell with the sea. The breeze came again, this time with a pungent moist dampness to it that made her shiver. With pine cone to ear, she thought she heard her name being called.

She swung her arm by her side and then lifted the cone again to her ear. Leeanna. Three or four times the call came, and only when the pine cone was to her ear. Hearing her voice in such a childlike manner brought a sudden smile to her face.

She knew she was not alone, she was not forgotten and no matter how much she struggled with purpose, she would not be overlooked.


Elephant Justice

The story about the elephant without tusks, tail and end of trunk is true, the rest is made up.


Ashok and Hari hurried away from the flailing elephant, tusks, tail and end of trunk stuffed into a bag and slung over Ashok’s shoulders. The elephant kicked its feet in the mud only to find itself too weak to stand.

The poachers made it to the outskirts of Goalpara in Assam, India by midnight and hoped the following day to meet the man who would pay them for their highly prized goods. They sat on the floor at the low table while the woman of the shack served them tea. The woman was silent but her eyes took in the men’s belongings and she eyed them cautiously. They barely noticed her lips moving quietly and assumed she was praying.

The single smudged lantern cast gloomy shadows along the planked walls. Ashok saw the huge basket by the bed mat and knew she was one of the villagers who walked daily up to the tea fields to harvest the leaves. He smugly asked for more tea.

Hari drifted off to sleep at the table. Soon Ashok took the woman’s bed mat for his own. The woman continued moving her lips, her eyes glistening by now.

When the men were both asleep, she slipped out of the shack and quickly turned on the path leading up into the hills. When she could no longer see the shack or her surrounding neighbors, she broke into a mournful chant, the fervor of her emotions building in her vocal lamentation.

Soon other voices joined in, the sorrowful screams of elephants grieving the loss of a friend. The woman’s chant grew louder, as did the elephants. At her loudest and highest pitch she lifted her arms in the air and swayed back and forth crying out for justice.

When it ended, the woman walked very slowly out of the hills and with each curve of the road she was joined by another elephant companion. By the time she reached her door, 42 elephants accompanied her.

And when Hari and Ashok awoke, they were surrounded.

Flash Fiction Friday “Grinray’s Quest”

I am so not going in there again. I don’t care if they hold a gun to my head or threaten to kill my family, friends or boyfriend. I glare at the environmental officers standing in a circle, plotting their next move, or rather mine.

The only reason I volunteered for this task was because my boyfriend and I had had a fight, the kind where one of you threatens to leave. And I did. So now I’m here just outside the blazing orange rainforest referred to by the locals as “Nefapaquim” which means “disaster comes to the earth.”

Crap, here they come. Breathe, just breathe.

“Grinray, we’re going to need you to go back in and collect more samples. And this time we’d like you to eliminate it.”

“I can’t, I–”

“You must. Think of your friends, your family; think of humanity. You can save humanity if you enter Nefapaquim one more time. Now, Jerry has programmed your course into the head of your safety gear. You’ll see your target getting closer as you go. Once you reach it, destroy it, collect samples and get the hell out of there as fast as you can before the others attack.”

I change into a fresh skin-tight, raven black, indestructable shield suit. I’m so nervous I’m unable to put the helmet on. Jerry gets it on and tests our telepathic communications. I must not speak aloud in Nefapaquim, the risk of being compromised is far too high.

I’m ready to go. I test my automatic hand laser on a nearby tree. Clean shot, the tree topples. A local dressed in a colorful feathery cape begins to sway and spin, his form of prayer for me.

I walk to the edge of Nefapaquim. I can already sense the radio-active capuchin green primates staring down at me from their safe havens high above in the abnormal blaze orange trees.

This is it. This is my last chance to save humanity.

Charlie’s Rock-Out

Today is flash fiction Friday. Here is a story for your amusement. Although I suppose you could comment on it too, or debate a minute point of it or something.

Charlie “the Fang” Dentin sat in his dressing room while Annette his hairdresser worked magic with Vidal Sassoon mousse and Aqua Net hairspray. She nearly always used a full can of both on Charlie’s bleached white, shoulder length hair. She pulled up and sprayed until her fingers got stuck and then he predictably helped pry her out and pulled her on his lap for an even more predictable bad boy of rock kiss.

After Annette giggled and ran from the room, Charlie stood to begin his pre-stage mantra. “O-why-ee-o-why-ee-o-me-ee” was internally spoken as he stretched his legs in the white, tight leather pants. He didn’t need another wardrobe malfunction this year; 1984 had been bad enough already what with that boy throwing up on him and then that hot teacher running a red permanent marker down his front when he tried to steal a kiss from her. Charlie’s outfits didn’t grow on trees.

His manager Carl poked his head in the door. “You ready?”

“Yeah. Got my guitar?”

“Right here.” Carl opened the door all the way for Charlie. “Now remember, stick to the songs we rehearsed. I don’t need another Syracuse incident.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Charlie reached for his electric guitar and chanted to himself again. Four more shows this year. He could make it. He knew he could.

He slid the guitar strap over his neck and ran his fingers across the strings. He imagined himself opening for Def Leopard at Shea Stadium. He could hear the mob of rockers chanting his name, “Fang! Fang! Fang!”

The flourescent lights in the gymnasium of Harbor View Elementary had been dimmed. Charlie walked to the stage and plugged into the amp. He strummed a single chord and the first through fourth graders screamed. He wailed his way through a rocked out version of why to brush your teeth and at the end the dwarfed crowd was silent.

A lone voice came from the crowd, “Mrs. Ditner, why is he playing a giant toothbrush?”

Charlie cringed inside and began his second song, “Molar, Why’d Ya Have To Go Bad.”

Charlie “the Fang” Dentin knew it was either play a toothbrush-shaped guitar and sing dentally, or work at the local factory plucking chickens.

Flash Fiction Friday–“Snake Bath”

I’m changing it up and making my Friday posts flash fiction. Flash fiction is abbreviated, short, short stories. Thanks to Ed, Cheryl, Caleb, and Emily for their input.

“Snake Bath”


There was no way Anne Winchester Douglas was climbing into the bath at the Cung Dien Resort in Da Nang, Vietnam. Just moments before she had watched a giant, green snake slither its way to the edge where it disappeared among the rocks inside the pool. She had to remind herself why she was even here at all.


It had been a peculiar month fraught with adventure, disappointment and the stale taste of change lingering somewhere in the region of her vanquished heart. Truth be told, at age 27 Anne was desperate for a husband or anything that could take her away from her nagging drone of a sister and her superfluous father.  So naturally, when Brad Douglas of Dublin stepped off the ferry and accidentally knocked her over with his monstrous backpack, what could she do but meekly smile and fake pain? He had instantly helped her over to a bench where he swore he wouldn’t leave until he was certain she was okay.


Two hours later they had left the bench and made their way to a nearby pub. Four hours later they were engaged.


They eloped the next day, Anne more than happy to dispense with wedding formalities in exchange for a ticket to accompany her new husband to Vietnam where they were to hike the Or Egong Trail. Hadn’t leaving England and having an adventure in a foreign country been her heart’s desire for years? Alas, it had been a disaster.


By the time they reached Vietnam, jet lag had taken its toll on the newlyweds and they were snapping at each other in clipped words wrought with anger. Anne, unaccustomed to rickshaws, had thrown up as they lurched head-on into oncoming traffic. This was followed by a night spent in a stinking, humid hostel at the trailhead in which the high-pitched noises of mosquitoes and native laughter fought for the title of most annoying noise ever.


The three weeks they spent on the Or Egong Trail was a blur of rain, creepy insects, side-stepping poisonous snakes and plants and eating too many energy bars, which brought on bouts of the whistle belly thumps. When they reached the end of the trail, Brad had suggested they continue on to another trail he had heard about. Anne flat out refused and they had a sort of stand-off under a broad leafed tree while a couple of monkeys chattered above and flung pooh on them.


After that, Brad agreed to accompany Anne to Da Nang where she insisted they book a room at a resort. Once checked in, Brad left to make arrangements for transportation back to England.


Anne searched the pale green water for signs of the snake. She didn’t see it. The stench of her body got the better of her. She stepped into the warm water and quickly dunked herself. She had been officially baptized into the world of backpacking. With a quick suds-down she climbed out and turned in time to see the snake swimming through the remaining suds. Snakes apparently liked to be clean too.