Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts

Wednesday, March 11, 2026

Retirement Draws Near!

The day after Easter Sunday, I’ll begin a new chapter of life as I retire after 30 years serving as pastor of the Heidlersburg/Mount Olivet Charge of the Church of the United Brethren in Christ. Serving these congregations has been one of the great privileges of my life.

Retirement doesn’t mean slowing down — just shifting gears. My plans include:

1. Gradually moving from our home in Heidlersburg to Chambersburg.
2. Finishing the three novels that are so close to completion. (Retirement writing plan: finish three novels. Suspected obstacle: feline manuscript management.)


3. Starting a YouTube series that respectfully addresses common questions and objections about Christianity.
4. Taking some time to sort through my online connections, remembering old friends — especially those we lost during COVID — and letting go where needed. (That part will be bittersweet.)
5. Taming my massive library and reducing it by about 50% — likely with much weeping and wailing.
6. I’m also slowly rebuilding my old hobby in parlor magic. Years ago, I performed semi-professionally with the Society of American Magicians (1974–1979), and I still enjoy doing small shows for groups of 50 or fewer. Unfortunately, many of my props were damaged during an outdoor show a few years ago, so I’m starting over. These days it’s easy to find close-up magic — thanks in part to performers like David Blaine — but good parlor and stage effects are surprisingly hard to come by. Still, I recently discovered a wonderful old-fashioned magic shop in Reading, which feels a bit like finding buried treasure. So the rebuilding begins.
7. Research the possibility of obtaining a PhD in Aesthetic Theology (yes, that has been a long-term interest of mine) from Kairos University. Not because I want the title of Doctor before my name, but because I want to continue the discipline of study.

At 71, every day God gives me the strength to work toward these goals feels like a gift.

Short version: retirement just means I’ll be a busy little beaver in a different forest.

Saturday, February 7, 2026

Love in the Time of Chocolate

Last night at my writers' group, we were given a prompt and ten minutes to respond. As February 14th is Valentine's Day, we were told to write about something or someone sweet. For your flash fiction pleasure, here is what I came up with:

Love in the Time of Chocolate
by Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Have you heard about the Gingerbread Man? How about something sweeter? My good friend Gus Polinski was a world-renowned chocolatier, a master of the sweeter arts. His craftsmanship was par excellence, and his little shop in the backwaters of Harrisburg thrived. His truffles, brownie bites, peanut butter swirl, salted caramel, chocolate-covered strawberries, pretzels, nuts, and mini tarts had pushed many a poor unfortunate into type 2 diabetes, much to the joy of the local endocrinologists.

Less than a week ago, he came and urgently rapped on my front door. “Craig,” he said, blocking my front door. “I need your help. I’m being hunted down by assassins and enforcers from Hershey's and NestlĂ©'s. And the worst are those Mars Bars fanatics. I desperately need a favor!”

“Of course, Gus,” I replied. “Anything for a friend. What do you need?”

He stepped aside and ushered in a confectioner’s dream. “My masterpiece,” he said. It was a lovely and petite woman, but with one unique difference. I could see she was composed completely out of chocolate. She blinked at me and smiled, surprising me. She was a statue of sentient chocolate.

“They want her, and I won’t let them have her. Please hide her for me until I can find a better way to protect her.”

“Of course,” I said. “But what does she eat? What are her needs?”

“She needs nothing,” Gus said. “Just prop her up somewhere and don’t let her get dusty.”

And that is how Nougat came into my life. 

She was a charming, albeit unique, individual. Her IQ was quite high, and needless to say, she had quite a sweet personality.

Now I know what you evil-minded readers are thinking, that I lost self-control and took an occasional nibble. But, no, her ending was far worse. 

One August morning, I left for work, and when I returned, I discovered that my air conditioning had malfunctioned during the day. 

Nougat had melted away into my carpet, leaving the room smelling like a confectionery. 

I called Gus, but he seemed nonplussed. “It’s quite all right,” he said.

“Now I’m working on chocolate pets. Care to take on two Chocolate Labs?” 

Tuesday, January 14, 2025

My Favorite Two Wolves Memes

Audio by Erin Broadhurst on TikTok


1. Inside you, there are two wolves. Neither of them are paying rent.
2. Inside you are two wolves and your proctologist is frightened beyond words.
3. Inside you there are two wolves. Congratulations, Mrs. Werewolf, it's twins!
4. I don't have two wolves. I have 8 badgers, two mushrooms, and a snake.
5. Inside you there are 2 wolves. Sorry about the transporter malfunction.
6. Inside you there are two wolves, so they have advantage.
7. Inside me there are two wolves. I need serious medical attention.
8. Inside you there are two wolves. One always tells the truth the other always lies... or something like that.
9. "Inside you are 2 wolves" “Jokes on you, I can fit 3.”
10. Inside you there are two wolves. The other twelve are patiently waiting their turn.
11. Inside you there are two wolves. I'd recommend calling 911.
12. Inside you there are two wolves. Must have been one heck of a party!
13. Inside of me are two wolves, one of them is hungry. The second one is... hungry. You are hungry.
14. Inside you, there are 2 wolves. Sadly, there is no room for dessert.
15. Inside you, there are two wolves … wait. Now there are six wolves.
16. Inside me there are two wolves. I was really hungry this morning.
17. The doctor-recommended number of wolves inside of you is zero.
18. Inside of you there are two wolves. One of them is Adam Sandler. The other one is Adam Sandler. You are Adam Sandler.
19. Inside me there are two wolves. I will be incredibly sore tomorrow.
20. Inside you there are two wolves. You are dead.
21. Inside of you are two wolves. One craves cement. The other craves cement. You are addicted to cement.
22. Inside you are two wolves. They keep eating all the counting sheep. It's giving you insomnia.
23. You are inside 2 wolves (wait a minute…)
24. Inside of you are two knees. One is good. The other is bad. You are old.
25. Inside of you there are two wolves. One is wrong. The other one is wrong. You are wrong.
26. Inside your nose are two nostrils. One is so clogged, you can’t breathe. The other is so open you can taste the color of the air.
27. Inside you there are two wolves. One is wondering how it got there. The other is eating your liver.
28. Inside of you are two wolves. Both of them are exhausted.
29. Inside of you are two wolves. One is a coyote and the other is a coyote. You lack basic knowledge of North American carnivores.
30. Inside of you are two wolves. They are both fed up with your nonsense.





 

Thursday, May 16, 2024

Writing Exercises From A Rather Odd Mind

The first Thursday evening of every month, I meet with an eclectic group of Christian writers in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. We have been meeting for at least 29 years, and my publishing success, as sparse as it may be, comes from the encouragement and wisdom of this group.

Each month’s event follows a specific outline; one part is known as the Writer’s Prompt. A phrase or situation is given, and those attending have 10 minutes to craft a quick story or poem to share with the group.

I came across a collection of my older prompts when going through some old files, and I am offering them to you with tongue firmly planted in cheek.

Needless to say, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.



The first tale comes from the prompt, Write about an allegory:

It was a beautiful autumn evening, and the Halloween party at John Walker’s home was going full tilt. The full moon, the chain of pumpkin porch lights, and the scent of cheap Pumpkin Spice candles from the local Dollar Store brought an almost magical effect to the atmosphere.

John left his kitchen door with a massive pitcher of green bubbling brew. “Are there any takers?” he asked.

Sam Smithers raised his hand, and John poured him a tall glass of the heady, smoking brew. Sam raised the glass in a toast and took a tentative sip.

Immediately, he turned several rainbow hues and, gasping for breath, fell to the floor, reminding me for all the world of an October leaf, struck by an early frost, ripped from its secure perch to plummet to the moldy forest floor below.

“Heavens, John,” I said. “What did you give that poor soul?”

“I call it my Autumn Drink,” he said. “One sip, you turn colors and fall.”

I meditated on that for a moment. “John,” I said, “I hate to change the subject, but what is an allegory?”

John shrugged. “I don’t have a clue.”


I don’t remember what the given prompt was for this short, but I do remember it was fun:

“I didn’t think you were serious,” she said. “There are several reasons why time travel is not a good idea, and I’m surprised that I have to reiterate them to you. Paradoxes are the dilemma of not knowing whether time is malleable or rigid, the possible annihilation of self, and the possibility of breaking the linear nature of time and turning it into a loop. One does not dabble in affairs best left to God.”

I gritted my teeth and tried to remain calm. “That is all well and good,” I retorted, “but as always, my dear, your warnings always come in hindsight. Too little, too late, you might say.”

Outside the narrow cave entrance where we had taken refuge, we watched the tyrannosaurus as it continued to turn our time machine into rubble.



Again, I am trying to remember the prompt and the time ran out before I could finish the story. However, I include it here for your amusement.

It is said that there are realities that humanity was never meant to know, and for those who knew him, Terry Magee knew half a dozen. Once every Saturday evening, members of the Fox and Hare would gather around one of the oaken tables and over large mugs of everyone’s chosen beverage—nonalcoholic as everybody there was a teetotaler—Terry would regale us with one of his adventures.

“I remember back in my ill-spent youth, I served as first mate onboard a three-masted schooner dubbed the Ruptured Duck, a name that is a story in itself. We were bound for the Hebrides and had to take the treacherous waters around Cape Fear. It is said the waves there can surmount Big Ben, and the tides are faster than the intestinal agony of those who have eaten my great-aunt’s meat pasties, but the greatest danger”... here he paused for dramatic effect “... are the mermaids. Now, what any red-blooded man can see in a woman who is half fish is beyond me, but many a hardened sailor has thrown himself overboard from hearing the dulcet tones of a choir of mermaids singing He Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog.

“As we made our way through the treacherous waters ...”



As you may have perceived in the stories above, I enjoy picking on fellow group members, and I trust they’ll consider the source and respond with pity. Again, I have no idea what the prompt could have been.

Stephen Hensel is a Jack of all Trades, a fascinating individual who is a treat to talk to about any subject. John Walker is an ordained pastor writing a genuinely chilling horror tale.

“It is said, Reverend Walker, that there are things that a man was never meant to know,” Stephen Hensel said. “And I know at least three of them.”

“Ah,” John Walker replied, “but as a man of the cloth, I know at least four.”

“But what does your knowledge gain you?” Stephen snorted. “Can you craft the full moon’s light into beasts of legend? Can you cast the illusion of life on a figure made from sticks? Can you convince a person the reality of a dream?”

John smiled. “All that and more. I do not mean to brag ..”

“Too late,” Stephen interrupted.

“...But,” John continued, ignoring the insult, “I can mesmerize a crowd by merely speaking, a feat I perform on the first day of the week without fail. Not only that, but I can make food from a potluck dinner look, smell, and taste palatable by merely the power of suggestion in the form of a prayer of grace.”

“Ah,” Stephen said with a smile, “” but I have yet to reveal my most extraordinary feat of legerdemain ...”

Suddenly, the two men were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a third. “Lights out, gentleman, but first, your medications. Then sleepy time for all patients.”

“But,” Stephen pouted, “we were first promised ice cream.”



I have always been fascinated with cryptids, especially the canine version, whether they be called werewolves, dogmen, lycans, or spectral canines. Needless to say, they sneak into my writing quite often, and my writer’s group is very patient with my obsession. 

My wife was furious when I walked through the front door.

“It followed me home, hon. Can I keep it?”

“No!” she sputtered. “A dogman? What are you going to do with a dogman?”

“Well, it seems to have latched onto my pants leg, and I think it likes me.” I shook my foot, and it growled, never releasing its fangs from Levi’s.

“No!” She said adamantly. “I refuse. What if it bites one of the kids? Is it even housebroken?”

“Look,” I said, “it seems to be well-behaved. Let’s try it for a few days and see.”

That was eleven months ago, and I regret I didn’t acquire a dogman but a dog woman. Now we have five of the little ankle-biters running amuck. If anybody wants one, they’re adorable, have had all their shots, and are free.


If you have enjoyed my foray into writing, you can read more of my insanity in the links below. Not all of it is humor, and I have dabbled in dark fantasy romance (with a body count), science fiction, and horror. Enjoy.



Thursday, May 9, 2024

I Have Found My Treasure!


After years of searching, I found my genuine desire: an all-metal, manual pencil sharpener. I have destroyed numerous cheap plastic imitations that adhered to a flat surface with a suction cup and burned out countless electric pencil sharpeners.

Mock me if you will, but I sneer at mechanical pencils that gouge the paper and snap off the lead with the slightest pressure. Alone, I am the last person on this planet who uses #2 pencils. 

I have found my Precious. Leave me content in my cave while I scribble out riddles on cheap pads of yellow paper. 

Tuesday, April 11, 2023

The Chupacabra

Written in the mid-1990s, The Chupacabra is the second story I ever wrote for an audience and is a direct sequel to A Very Strange House. Yes, it does seem misogynistic for how I treat my female lead, but I assure you in this story she gets her revenge and Dr. Pyre gets his comeuppance.

I strongly encourage you to read A Very Strange House first, as the plot and jokes will go well over your head. And a word of warning. Written over 25 years ago, both tales would be considered politically incorrect, and readers sensitive to these issues are encouraged to read other stories elsewhere.

This series culminated in a very popular essay that will follow in a few days.


The Chupacabra
by Alan Pyre
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

https://www.ancient-origins.net/myths-legends-americas/chupacabra-puerto-rico-003706



"I am so sorry, Madam, but your luggage has been temporarily misplaced."

Molly Ladanyi sighed and started to fill out the proper forms. Her traditional bad luck again reared its ugly head in her first thirty minutes in San Juan. Fortunately, she only expected to be in Puerto Rico long enough to write the article her boss had assigned her. Then she could bask in the tropical sun for a few days and follow her agenda.

Dressed primly in a peasant blouse and ankle-length skirt, Molly picked up her two cameras, her laptop, and her purse and walked through the airport customs, searching for the men to meet her. Her last run-in with them at a haunted house in Maryland had turned into an embarrassing disaster. This time, she told herself, I will convince them I am a professional news reporter with class.

She saw two of them waiting at the bottom of the long escalator. She pulled up their names from memory; Joshua Nozzi and R. Austin Smith. She waved serenely and stepped on the escalator, setting her heavy purse by her feet. Smiling and standing behind the security gate, they waved back.

When Molly approached the bottom of the escalator, she gracefully knelt to pick up her purse, allowing the hem of her ankle-length skirt to become trapped by the motorized stairs as they disappeared into the floor. With all the irresistible force of the cosmos, her skirt, held up only by an elastic band, was pulled down around her hips and thighs.

Screaming wildly, trying to hold on to her purse while clutching at her modesty, she lost her balance. She went sprawling on the floor at the bottom of the escalator. Within heartbeats, the relentless motion of the machinery pulled her skirt off, and it disappeared into the floor. The terminal was as silent as death except for motorized gears shredding her pride into individual fibers.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered when one little boy pointed and laughed. "Mira!" he cried with joy. "Mira! Es Donald Duck!"

Near tears, Molly stumbled to her feet, gathered her stuff, and walked to the gate with as much dignity as she could muster, wishing she had selected plain panties that morning instead of bikini underwear bearing the repeated face of a Disney icon. Sadly, her peasant blouse was slightly cut in a midriff style which barely covered her navel, let alone her taste in lingerie.

Joshua and Austin stood in stunned silence, their eyes irresistibly drawn to the small duck faces that maniacally stared back at them. "Strange," Austin muttered to Joshua. "Their eyes seem to follow you no matter where she moves."

"Shall we go, gentlemen?" Molly asked icily, trying not to break down in tears in front of these men she had wanted so badly to impress. Joshua motioned toward the door. Leading the way, Molly walked out into the bright Puerto Rican sunlight, ignoring the laughter, jeers, and delighted cries of "Es Donald Duck!"

Austin pointed her toward the large white van she remembered from her first encounter with this strange research crew. She could see Jeff Coover sitting in the driver's seat and staring at her goggle-eyed while he slowly shook his head in disbelief. Joshua held the back door to the van open, and Molly walked inside. As before, electronic devices covered the van's interior from floor to roof. Sprawled in the middle of the floor was a large, old basset hound that stared at her with large, soulful eyes.

Molly slumped into a padded seat while Jeff started the van. Molly burst into tears of anger and shame, unable to hide her mortification. Embarrassed for her, Joshua gave her his handkerchief.

"I really wanted to impress you with my professionalism," she sobbed into the handkerchief. "How come," she wailed, "I always end up in my underwear around you guys?" The trio maintained an awkward silence, unable to think of anything comforting to say.

The basset hound, hobbling as the van bumped over rough San Juan streets, padded toward her. It sprawled in front of her feet and looked up at her with what appeared to be strong disapproval on its face.

"Go ahead and stare," she blubbered at the dog. "Everybody else is."

"Please do not accuse me of a carnal nature," the dog said thickly, "I am beyond all that."

Molly stared at the dog in stunned silence. Somehow, she thought to herself, somehow this doesn't seem all that strange. I sit in a van with three guys in San Juan, wearing nothing but a blouse and my bikini Donald Duck underwear, and a dog is talking to me.

"Jeff," the dog said. "Pull up at the next clothing store so we can get some proper attire for Miss Ladanyi."

"You're Doctor Pyre," Molly said dumbly.

"I'm pleased to see you again," the dog said. "However, it's evident your taste in unmentionables is still of a questionable nature."

Jeff pulled the van up into the corner. After asking Molly for her measurements, the basset and Austin left the van to shop for clothes.

After a few uncomfortable moments of silence, Molly blurted out. "That ugly dog is Dr. Pyre!"

"Pardon," Jeff replied, "but that dog is also a much-loved family pet."

"But ..., But ..." Molly stuttered.

"Allow me," Joshua said gallantly. "It was the good doctor's weekly practice to upload his brain waves to a recordable set of CD ROMs. After his demise in Frederick, we were placed firmly on the horns of a dilemma. Dr. Pyre was the only man who could sign our final paychecks, yet he quickly assumed room temperature trying to prove a ghost wasn't a ghost."

"Anyway," Jeff interrupted, "my family had owned old Duke for many years, and he was getting on in age. Plus the fact we were getting a little tired of him. We planned to take him to the vet and have him put down, but instead we used him as a receptacle for the doctor's recorded consciousness."

"But a dog?" Molly asked, temporarily forgetting her embarrassment.

Jeff shrugged. "It would have been unethical to put him in another human."

"And expensive," Joshua added.

The van door opened, and Austin and the basset entered, the former bearing several skirts embroidered with Puerto Rican designs. Molly selected a floral skirt that ended just above the knee and belted around the waist. She sighed with relief to find herself decent again.

"Well, gentlemen," said the dog, "and lady," he added with a nod to Molly, "the game is afoot. Let's go hunt the chupacabra and make names for ourselves."

The road to Caguas needed to be better maintained. But, amidst the bumps and potholes, Molly got in her questions.

"The chupacabra," the doctor was explaining, "which is Spanish, by-the-bye, for 'goat-sucker,' is a local creature with the same reputation as Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster.

"According to eyewitnesses, the chupacabra stands three to four feet tall, has a long tail, reptilian skin, strangely glowing green eyes, and a crest of spines that runs down the back.

"It's greatly feared in the area even though there are no records of it attacking humans. However, many goats, cows, and rabbits have been found with their brains, and blood sucked out with the precision of a talented surgeon."

"Gross!" Molly interjected. "But how will you capture such a thing when many others before you haven't even seen it?"

"Science!" the dog partly howled. "We've been tracking the sightings for several years and found a definite though complex pattern.

"According to our elaborate calculations, it awaits tonight in the moon-haunted tropical forests outside Caguas."

The remainder of the trip was uneventful though Joshua and Austin spent some time staring at Molly's shapely knees and legs. And that's as high up as it goes, gentlemen, she said to them in the privacy of her thoughts. No more peeks at my nether regions.

Five minutes later, the van turned into a very rough dirt road. Finally, after some bone-jarring bumps, the van wheezed to a stop.

"We're here," Jeff announced.

Molly, Austin, and Joshua, followed by the lumbering basset hound, stepped outside into the fading Puerto Rican daylight. It was evident the team had been here to set up beforehand as the ground was covered by a fine metal net covered by a smaller, coarser fiber net. A small goat was calmly chewing its cud in the middle of it all.

"What's that terrible odor?" Molly asked, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

"Goat urine," Joshua said, helping Austin hook a thick cable from the net to the van. "We soaked the ground with it several days ago as an attractant for the chupacabra."

"The trap is quite simple," Austin chimed in. "When the chupacabra attacks the goat, Jeff will send 200,000 watts of electricity through the metal net. Then, having hardly any amperage, it will simply stun the beast. We then trigger the fiber net, which pulls up into the tree, and we have our monster."

"Seems simple enough," Molly said.

"Are we hooked up, gentlemen?" Dr. Pyre asked. After they nodded their response, they returned to the van for the long wait.

Jeff had already taken his seat at the central console. The outside video camera showed the goat on its knees, close to napping. Taking their seats, Jeff passed out sandwiches, and they waited. Outside, the Puerto Rican evening turned into night. Jeff switched on the infrared.

Absentmindedly, Molly reached down and scratched the basset hound behind the ears. Dr. Pyre spun his head around with a snarl. "I would appreciate it if you wouldn't do that," he growled as Molly jerked her hand back.

"Sorry," said Molly meekly.

After a few minutes, Molly nervously cleared her throat. "Excuse me," she said, "but can anybody tell me where a girl can use the powder room?"

Dr. Pyre rolled his eyes in disbelief. "Infrared show anything, Jeff?" he asked.

"Nope," Jeff said, evidently bored. "All's clear."

"I'm sorry we have no modern conveniences," Dr. Pyre said to Molly, "but you'll have your choice of trees."

Blushing, Molly pointed at the video and infrared monitors.

The dog sighed in disgust. "I'll ensure these voyeurs keep their eyes on more important work. Jeff, please turn off the monitors until Miss Ladanyi returns."

Jeff shrugged and hit a switch. The monitors went dead.

Joshua looked at Austin and raised his eyebrows. Austin shrugged and discreetly reached over and hit the record button on the VCR. The monitors were off, but the outside cameras worked just fine. They were not interested in Molly answering the call of nature. Still, later they would put the video where the good doctor could find it and enjoy the resulting explosion of temper and outrage.

The good doctor was so much more entertaining as a basset hound.

Molly walked behind the van away from the net and the goat that served as bait, the beam of the flashlight she had been given reflecting off the leaves. She played the beam around the van and shivered to think that soon something might come that was not of this world or not meant to be of this world.

When she heard the hiss to her left, she instinctively directed the light toward the sound. Unfortunately, the light reflected back from a pair of large, emerald-green eyes. She stood in terror as the creature before her raised itself to its full height. It hissed again and opened its jaws where a stiff hollow tongue played over inch-long fangs. Once again, it hissed, and the spines on its back stiffened into a macabre row of deadly adornment.

Whimpering, Molly inched away from the creature that stared at her in sheer malevolence. She reached out for the door handle that would let her back into the van and safety. She slowly turned the handle, only to discover it was locked.

The beast charged.

With a scream, she ran around the van, only to go sprawling over the goat that began bleating in terror from being stomped on. Immediately, the floodlights were turned on, brilliantly illuminating the area. Molly stumbled to her feet as the men in the van began yelling as they realized her danger.

With a sob, she staggered and turned to face the creature that blinked at her in the brilliant light. It hissed and sprang.

Simultaneously, the hemp net was released. It brought the goat bawling into the air and snagged itself into Molly's skirt. Then, with another scream, she was pulled into the air, her skirt jerked over her waist. The chupacabra leaped only to find empty air and prey twenty feet above it.

Sprawling on the ground where its target had been, it hissed in its rage at being cheated of a victim. Molly hung suspended, held in place by the thin belt that kept her skirt cinched around her waist. She clung to the net and the bawling goat as her long bare legs kicked empty air.

The van's back door opened, and Doctor Pyre leaped out barking. Then, in desperation and anxiety, Joshua and Austin stumbled over each other and sprawled on the ground.

With a growl, the good doctor lunged, teeth bared for the chupacabra's throat. The chupacabra spun on its short reptilian legs and caught the dog in midair in its three-inch claws. It was over in moments.

Suddenly, there was a shower of sparks. The chupacabra screamed as 200,000 volts ripped through its body. It tried to run, but its muscles were frozen by the voltage. Finally, it slumped into the metallic net and over the body of the mangled basset hound.

Jeff turned on the outside speakers while Joshua and Austin regained their feet. "Quickly," Jeff ordered, "Cover it with the metal grid. I'll keep a low voltage flowing through it to keep it unconscious.

Within seconds, the chupacabra was wrapped in the metal net.

"Will somebody please help me down now?" Molly whimpered. Austin and Joshua looked up at her in pensive thought.

"You're right," Joshua said to Austin. "Donald's eyes do follow you as she moves."

An hour later, the chupacabra was caged and kept unconscious by a steady flow of low-voltage electricity. Joshua and Austin had carried the dog's body back into the van, and the four sat around it as they contemplated their next move.

"Triggering the hemp net and getting you into the air was the only way I knew to get you out of harm's way," Jeff explained to Molly. "Fortunately, the net snagged your skirt, or you would have had to face the thing on the ground."

"Whoa," Austin said, pointing to the dog. "Basset in a blender! There's not much left."

"He tried to save my life," Molly said, tears coming.

"Now, who's gonna sign our paychecks?" Joshua asked. They all stared silently at what little was left of the good doctor.

"When did he last update his brain wave CD?" Jeff asked.

"Just this morning," Joshua responded.

"What are we going to put him into this time?" Jeff asked, scratching his head. There was another few moments of silence.

"I've got a gerbil at home," Austin said.

Jeff shook his head in the negative. " Too small. It can't hold a pen. Anyway, we need something now. We got to get home."

The chupacabra moaned in its restless sleep. They looked at the chupacabra. They looked at each other. They all smiled.

"Any port in a storm," Jeff quipped.

"It'll fit his personality," Austin added.

"And it'll be a great learning experience," Joshua said.

"Why not?" Molly said. "He won't be any uglier than my boss at the paper." She let out a tired sigh. "I just want to go home. I'm tired of flashing my fanny at you fellows."

Austin simply smiled, hit the eject button on the VCR, and put the tape in a safe place.

- THE END -

Wednesday, July 3, 2019

My Free Online Stories


As I write to entertain, I have been guilty of posting stories for free on this blog and here is an easy master list for you to easily find them. If you are entertained, as a I hope you are, please feel free to purchase any of my collections at your nearest Amazon and please do not forget to leave a review. Needless to say, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED! Feel free to link to the stories, but please do not cut and paste, download, or copy.


Complete Short Stories


  1. Gray Matter: A Dark SF Story in Six Paragraphs
  2. The Man Who Loved A Doll: A Parable
  3. The City of Sarkomand, A Guide for the Traveler
  4. Child of Sorrow
  5. Quatermass vs. the Aliens
  6. Nightmare
  7. Fake Memory Challenge--Sixteen Tiny Tales
  8. The Sinister Minister's Thanksgiving Confession
  9. Molly's Christmas: A Story For Children
  10. The Star: A Super Short Christmas Story
  11. A Lord of All Futures Christmas Tale
  12. Diesel-Punk Super Short For Your Amusement
  13. Revelstone 2020: A Cyberpunk Story
  14. Adrift Off The Great Red Spot, 22°51'23.14"S, 98°49'24.40"W
  15. Sheila: A Morality Tale
  16. Jenny, Sweet Jenny
  17. Kill Your Darlings
  18. Timely Revenge
  19. Fifteen Super Short Stories
  20. Wolf Hunter: A Short Story
  21. The Curse: A Flash Fiction of 450 Words
  22. Summer Games: A Short Story
  23. Wild Carrot (humorous short story)
  24. Lair of the White Rabbit (Vignettes)
  25. An Exercise in Insanity (44 Super Short Stories)

Desperate Attempts at Humor (Please Don't Hurt Me)

  1. The Psalter of Saint Brumphrey the Unstable
  2. It Is The Month Of March And My Heart Yearns For Paris
  3. A Writing Exercise From 2011 (Zombies)
  4. Cheerful Company And A Merry Time
  5. Meditating On The Afterlife
  6. The Detective, The Dame, The Diamond, and the Dog
  7. Trekking With My Mother Through The Kohl’s Bra Aisle
  8. Rabbit Barf Cookies or "Get That Man Out of the Kitchen!
  9. Paranormal Romance? Let Me Give It A Shot. Oh, Man, I'VE OFFENDED MYSELF!
  10. The Horror... The Horror... (Teaching at a Homeschool Co-op)
  11. The Many (Supposed) Faces Of The Rev. Craig "Alan" Loewen
  12. Almost ALL My My Little Pony Satires
  13. Spells From Loewen’s Dark Grimoire
  14. My Schnuffel Bunny Intervention
  15. What Is A Bodice Ripper Genre Story?
  16. A Christmas Carol Parody
  17. When It's Superbowl Sunday and You Have No Life
  18. A Day In The Life of Detective Nick Weaver
  19. The Tea Experiment: What Hath My Madness Wrought?
  20. The Rotwang Convention For Mad Scientists
  21. Pepsi
  22. Winter Tales from the Blizzards of 2015 and 2016
  23. Grey Ghost and Doom Storm Reminisce
  24. 10 Pointers When With A Werewolf
  25. My First and Last Interview
  26. Belinda McFate: The Literary World's Weakest Female Character
  27. My Road Trip - Day 344
  28. The Most Common Cause of Death Among Literary Characters
  29. Mrs. McGillicuddy's Home for Unwed Cats
  30. Case Study: Counseling Transcript of Client Blanche Thibodeaux

Fragments

  1. Faydra: A Tale From the Fractured World
  2. Slender Man: An Excerpt From An Old Work
  3. Grave Gate Sample
  4. I Dream of a Cat at a Parisian Bistro
  5. When Imagination Calls (Story Excerpt)
  6. Rat Hunt: A Story Excerpt
  7. Rat Hunt Segment #2
  8. The Lord of All Futures Story Excerpt
  9. Elysia House
  10. Sister Unicorn: A Fable For Adult Children
  11. Doll Wars: The Prologue
  12. The Hunters Three: An Experimental Story
  13. The House: An Excerpt
  14. The Lord of All Futures Story Excerpt

Poetry

Saturday, November 17, 2018

Just In Time for Thanksgiving: A Medieval Recipe


Just In Time for Thanksgiving: A Medieval Recipe

Yesterday, while haunting the crowded aisles of a local thrift store, I was able to rescue a cookbook that struck my fancy. Lorna J. Sass' To The King's Taste, is a compilation of various medieval cookbooks that were used in the court of England's Richard II (AD 1367 - 1400). I immediately saw it was a fascinating treatise and as the thrift store is notorious for shredding books and making money from the recycled paper, I snatched it up and will be sending it to a friend who is involved in the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA).

The cookbook contains some fascinating modern translations of various dishes that were literally fit to set before a king, comestibles with such fascinating names as Perrey of Peson (an exotic and sweetly flavored pea soup), Sawse Madame (a goose stuffed with garlic, fruit, and herbs), Tart de Brymlent (fruit and salmon pie), Aquapatys (boiled garlic), and Sambocade (elderflower cheesecake).

The work also goes into trivia about medieval meals such as Richard II's castle having a hearth big enough to roast an entire ox, and exotic spices were brought from very far corners of the world such as ginger, sandalwood, pepper, galingale, and a spice called cubeb, a small berry from Java that has a distinct flavor reminiscent of a cross between pepper and allspice.

However, for your upcoming Thanksgiving feast, or any feast in general, allow me to share with you one recipe from the book that sounds tantalizing: Connynge in Cyrip, better known as ...



I very much wish to try this dish, but I will attempt it with chicken instead of rabbit. By the bye, the 1/2 teaspoon of finely ground cubebs will most likely be difficult, if not impossible, to find. Instead, substitute 1/4 teaspoon of finely ground pepper and 1/4 teaspoon of finely ground allspice.

And for those poor souls that lack the time, finances, or expertise to tackle such an exotic dish, allow me to regale you with a medieval dish made specifically for peasants:


LOEWEN'S D*MN GOOD GRUEL
by Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Imagine serving your family Loewen's D*mn Good Gruel this evening, sweeping into your dining room in a swirl of skirts and saying, "Tonight, we're all going to eat like pathetic, medieval peasants." and plopping tasty gruel into the earthenware bowls before them.

Well, this recipe is an authentic gruel recipe and is exactly how poor peasants lived under the crushing boots of their feudal overlords.

LOEWEN'S D*MN GOOD GRUEL
(serves 1 pathetic peasant)

  1. Boil 1 pint of water.
  2. While coming to a boil, mix 4 heaping tablespoons of the flour of your choice (wheat, rye, cornmeal) into COLD water, making a paste.
  3. When the water comes to a boil, add the paste and stir.
  4. Throw in a handful of raisins (we may be pathetic, but we ain't masochists)
  5. Add a dash of salt to taste.
  6. Reduce to simmer and cook for 8 to 10 minutes, stirring occasionally.
  7. Serve with the sweetener of your choice to taste, and nutmeg and/or cinnamon. (Milk, soy milk, or rice milk is optional).
Now everybody knows that a good meal must have a good presentation, so it's best to give everybody a cue card with authentic medieval peasant conversation as follows:
  • Now this is d*mn good gruel
  • We (burned/hung/rode out of town on a rail) a (witch/Puritan/Popist) at (work/school) today.
  • Scurvy? Let me tell you about scurvy!
  • I'm so glad that gruel doesn't require teeth.
  • I made 3 pence begging in front of the church today!
  • You know, modern science says that demons are behind all headaches.
  • Today, Old Lady Henicle turned me into a newt!
  • The plague only took two of our neighbors today! 
Yes, I am a sick puppy, but the recipe does work as I've tried it and it does taste rather good, thank you very much.

Tuesday, October 30, 2018

The Trials of Being a Counselor to Lycanthropes

For the month of October, 2018, I gave myself a challenge: could I come up with a joke for every day in October centered on the theme of what it must be like to be a counselor for those poor shapeshifters who must put up with all sorts of indignities? Surely, they can use the help of a licensed counselor, no?

I will leave you as judge, jury, and executioner to judge how well I did.























Monday, July 23, 2018

Walker Wars: How Insane Writers Get Their Ideas

(Note: I just read a report that says dark humor is a sure sign of encroaching dementia. If true this musing is proof that I'm doomed.)
This evening I meet with a small group of fellow writers and as I walked out with my companion, the conversation turned to the subject of nursing homes and their probable inevitability in my future. I bemoaned my lack of wealth that ensures dependence on government handouts, my introverted personality that does not enjoy being forced to mingle with others in a crowded environment, and my encroaching old age.

Me. Probably Just A Year From Now
On the way home, I envisioned myself, deaf and haggard, pushing a walker ahead of me while the rest of the doomed, the despairing, and the despondent sat about me or meandered the hallways while the halls echoed with the continual cries for nurses, bedpans, and assistance getting up from where they had fallen. 
(Note: This is not what nursing homes are actually like (I visit all the local ones professionally), but I'm a writer. I make my money from melodrama, hyperbole,  and conflict, not writing prose that would even give Pollyanna sugar shock)
Then my inner vision panned back and I took in the Pleasant Valley Retirement Community where I was a resident, abandoned by the staff after a zombie outbreak.

Suddenly, the camera zoomed back in and there I was with the remaining three survivors of the Daffodil Wing preparing for a raid on the few residents left in the Daisy Wing as we prepared to fight tooth and nail over the last case of banana-flavored Ensure.

Armed with canes and dentures, we slowly (the only speed available to us) made our way down the hallways, past the lockdown unit where the residents clawed at the windowed door. We never knew if they were zombified or normal residents that had chewed through their restraints, but nobody was going to risk opening the door to answer the question.

As we crept through the social room through the dining hall cluttered with debris from past conflicts, we met the enemy led by Mrs. Emma Plushbottom, a harridan of well-known reputation, all wrinkles and fury. 

The battle was on.

However, just as I envisioned that last scenario as combatants in wheelchairs or supported by walkers impacted each other in desperate conflict, I arrived home.

My dreams will probably be rather weird tonight.

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I have a love/hate with artificial intelligence. There is so much of what is called AI slop out there, that I long for true human interactio...