LightAndMagic
Member
Occasionally, I get the inspiration to write stories. Enjoy, perhaps?
Deep Fried Ice Cream:
I like to consider this one like a little prologue to a book. Not the full story, just a little 'hook' for the reader.
Oh, Larry:
Deep Fried Ice Cream:
Larry Linenbrook was a stout man, with an almost obsessive love for deep fried ice cream. A negligent fact to him, but an important one. On his online profile, his features were thickly veiled with non-truths, and there was an ominous absence of a photo. People never paid attention to that profile on Trumatch, in fact, Larry was positive he must have the least amount of views on the whole site. See, Larry, despite his appearance was full of (like many shy, odd looking people) interesting facts that people may have found compelling, but had isolated himself with his silence and fictional tales.
He seemed dull. Brown hair, brown eyes, his favourite food was steak (this was a lie), and his only listed interests were movies (the names of specifics missing) and TV (which featured the same problems as movies). Larry had a single friend on Trumatch: the site owner who automatically adds everyone. Sometimes he imagined himself the most popular man on the internet. He could have all the e-friends in the world (literally); none knowing his blubbery face.
See, maybe if he had been more honest in his profile, he would have received more views. What if they had known about the flecks of jade that lie buried in his dirt-coloured iris? Or the natural blond highlights that appeared in his silken brown hair after he spent so long standing in the sun waiting for the bus? Or how he despised those highlights so much? Or how the stubby fingers, with slightly yellow nails, used to hold joint after joint, then Cuban after Cuban, and now spoon after spoonful of deep fried ice cream? Or how, when he was a young boy of 17, he lost his virginity to a girl he hardly knew? And when he wished to speak with her the next day, and tell her his dreams of moving to a small wooden home by a beautiful blue lake, so their children could become attuned with nature, she told him ‘to get the hell away’ from her.
Perhaps if he told them that his favourite movie was Fried Green Tomatoes, rather than Die Hard. Perhaps if he told his deep love for everything Audrey Hepburn did, instead of his supposed admiration for Arnold Schwarzenegger (although he really did love the Terminator series). Perhaps if he even provided these fabricated facts, instead of just ‘movies’ he would receive more views. Even he did not believe the lies he told mostly to himself, and some others.
Like an old woman, Larry loves ‘Murder She Wrote.’ Although the stale plot lines and dull characters spoke to so few, Larry found them lovingly nostalgic, classy, and written beautifully. Like an emotionally unstable teenage girl, Larry found himself depressed by the painful love lives of badly written teen dramas (not because they were written terribly) more than that of the many calamities he witnessed on the news. His deep interest for animals made him perpetually interested in the discovery network and their many animal specials (who knew that dragon could have possibly existed?). He could have listed how he owns, and has watched, every episode of The Simpsons and Dead Like Me (which, unfortunately, was only a measly two seasons). About how his sister, whom he hadn’t spoken to in three years, was the star of a popular soap opera.
Maybe if he said how he used to play keyboard in a ‘new-age retro punk’ band (as they so labelled themselves). How for the longest time, he tried to convince himself that his favourite musician was Poison, when he knew that it was Mozart. He specifically loved Mozart’s early work, but his requiem was a treasure held deep in Larry’s heart. But, his favourite song, which he always hummed, was something no one expected it to be. One day, three years ago, he heard his niece listen to ‘Living Room’ by Tegan and Sara. It was astonishing to him that there was decent music in the modern age (because at his age, all music that is recent was deemed crap before listening), and it was absolutely beautiful to him. It was greater than his supposed favourite, Pinball Wizard. Maybe if his secret love for modern music was told, he might find himself more popular.
And that luscious, seared, dark brown steak. He despised it. But it seemed like the right thing to say. Really, he loved deep fried ice cream, he could eat twenty, no, forty bowls a day (of course he did not). The velvety taste and texture of the frosty, inner core surrounded by a golden brown crunchy, greasy, flaky shell. So diverse. So unlike him. Larry Linenbrook was a man full of fabricated facts that he himself was afraid to tell.
He seemed dull. Brown hair, brown eyes, his favourite food was steak (this was a lie), and his only listed interests were movies (the names of specifics missing) and TV (which featured the same problems as movies). Larry had a single friend on Trumatch: the site owner who automatically adds everyone. Sometimes he imagined himself the most popular man on the internet. He could have all the e-friends in the world (literally); none knowing his blubbery face.
See, maybe if he had been more honest in his profile, he would have received more views. What if they had known about the flecks of jade that lie buried in his dirt-coloured iris? Or the natural blond highlights that appeared in his silken brown hair after he spent so long standing in the sun waiting for the bus? Or how he despised those highlights so much? Or how the stubby fingers, with slightly yellow nails, used to hold joint after joint, then Cuban after Cuban, and now spoon after spoonful of deep fried ice cream? Or how, when he was a young boy of 17, he lost his virginity to a girl he hardly knew? And when he wished to speak with her the next day, and tell her his dreams of moving to a small wooden home by a beautiful blue lake, so their children could become attuned with nature, she told him ‘to get the hell away’ from her.
Perhaps if he told them that his favourite movie was Fried Green Tomatoes, rather than Die Hard. Perhaps if he told his deep love for everything Audrey Hepburn did, instead of his supposed admiration for Arnold Schwarzenegger (although he really did love the Terminator series). Perhaps if he even provided these fabricated facts, instead of just ‘movies’ he would receive more views. Even he did not believe the lies he told mostly to himself, and some others.
Like an old woman, Larry loves ‘Murder She Wrote.’ Although the stale plot lines and dull characters spoke to so few, Larry found them lovingly nostalgic, classy, and written beautifully. Like an emotionally unstable teenage girl, Larry found himself depressed by the painful love lives of badly written teen dramas (not because they were written terribly) more than that of the many calamities he witnessed on the news. His deep interest for animals made him perpetually interested in the discovery network and their many animal specials (who knew that dragon could have possibly existed?). He could have listed how he owns, and has watched, every episode of The Simpsons and Dead Like Me (which, unfortunately, was only a measly two seasons). About how his sister, whom he hadn’t spoken to in three years, was the star of a popular soap opera.
Maybe if he said how he used to play keyboard in a ‘new-age retro punk’ band (as they so labelled themselves). How for the longest time, he tried to convince himself that his favourite musician was Poison, when he knew that it was Mozart. He specifically loved Mozart’s early work, but his requiem was a treasure held deep in Larry’s heart. But, his favourite song, which he always hummed, was something no one expected it to be. One day, three years ago, he heard his niece listen to ‘Living Room’ by Tegan and Sara. It was astonishing to him that there was decent music in the modern age (because at his age, all music that is recent was deemed crap before listening), and it was absolutely beautiful to him. It was greater than his supposed favourite, Pinball Wizard. Maybe if his secret love for modern music was told, he might find himself more popular.
And that luscious, seared, dark brown steak. He despised it. But it seemed like the right thing to say. Really, he loved deep fried ice cream, he could eat twenty, no, forty bowls a day (of course he did not). The velvety taste and texture of the frosty, inner core surrounded by a golden brown crunchy, greasy, flaky shell. So diverse. So unlike him. Larry Linenbrook was a man full of fabricated facts that he himself was afraid to tell.
I like to consider this one like a little prologue to a book. Not the full story, just a little 'hook' for the reader.
Oh, Larry:
As Larry looked beyond the walls of his three metre by three metre cubicle, a nervous sweat began to form on his forehead. Actually, it was more of a perspiration (a general mist, and not drops, but this is besides the point). As he looked beyond the walls of his bland, boring office (one that unlike all other offices, was filled with no memorabilia. With the exception of a fancy marble paperweight, there was absolutely nothing in Larry’s office, and most people did not recognize the marble paperweight as memorabilia), he noticed his co-workers standing around the proverbial water cooler and talking about the latest TV show. Or perhaps they were visiting one another’s cubicles. Always talking, and never to him. They would walk by, make a courteous smile, simple pleasantries; Larry knew. Larry knew they were really leering at him. They were all talking about him. They were all judging him.
“You know that weirdo in the cubicle two down from mine? He never says anything!â€
“You know that weirdo in the cubicle two down from mine? He never says anything!â€