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My idea of heaven wandered around the notion of strapping antlers to my head and pretending to be a moose. The problem with this heaven of mine was the fact that when it came to moose hunting season, I was often shot. Fair enough, if you see a brown furry thing that is eating dirt and grass you will shoot the brown furry thing eating the dirt and the grass. There is no harm done there other than to my multiple internal wounds.
I find that bullet wounds tend to impress the ladies. The more you have to add to your muscle collection, the more sensitive and experienced they think you are. There is a point, however, where you can having far too many bullet holes in you and girls start thinking there might be a bit of an issue in your head. Not me though; I don't like the standard hobbies like collecting stamps and the thought of all that pointless dancing.
To be fair, back in my younger moose impersonation days I was banned from entering the hunting parks they stick all the moose in. Did that stop me? No way would my dreams be shattered by a simple park supervisor. After I was booted far out of the park, I put my mind in one place and thought of a new and exciting plan.
I needed something more, something better than wandering around with antlers strapped to my head.
I found myself an antique store. One of those big old stores that sells everything from mothballs to lion statues and taxidermists' old projects. In there I found a rack of pelts. Now, as popular as moose hunting was, there weren't many moose furs. So I went with what they had. I found a dark brown bear rug, which had rather long hairs for a moose, but a little shave would fix that all up.
I then said to the cashier, I said: How much do you want for that bear rug?
He said back to me: It's not for sale.
That was a bit of a problem. So I thought about my priorities and I decided that I should think of a new plan. I was up to rob the antique store so I could go and tell off the park-man and show him what a real moose is made of.1
There was another problem; I also needed something to cut the fur with. So I went to any old store since every old store sells a pair of scissors. This is where I was met with another problem. All the scissors that that this store sold were packaged in boxes which would require more scissors to open them. I only had enough pocket change on me to buy one pair of scissors.
So I was out of my way again looking around. This time I considered getting something to open the scissor package with so I could cut the fur. But first I needed the fur, so I needed something to break into the antique store to steal the fur before anything else. The problem with that was that anything I bought had to be opened with scissors and I had just established the fact firmly in my mind that packaging companies are made of evil and deranged people.
I gave up. I marched right back over to that park—I did. I snapped on my cheap antlers and ran right passed that park-man yelling and screaming about who was the fool now. He was the fool now and I am proud to say that I got shot three times that day. By the park-man—moose season was cancelled years ago after they all went extinct.
I find that bullet wounds tend to impress the ladies. The more you have to add to your muscle collection, the more sensitive and experienced they think you are. There is a point, however, where you can having far too many bullet holes in you and girls start thinking there might be a bit of an issue in your head. Not me though; I don't like the standard hobbies like collecting stamps and the thought of all that pointless dancing.
To be fair, back in my younger moose impersonation days I was banned from entering the hunting parks they stick all the moose in. Did that stop me? No way would my dreams be shattered by a simple park supervisor. After I was booted far out of the park, I put my mind in one place and thought of a new and exciting plan.
I needed something more, something better than wandering around with antlers strapped to my head.
I found myself an antique store. One of those big old stores that sells everything from mothballs to lion statues and taxidermists' old projects. In there I found a rack of pelts. Now, as popular as moose hunting was, there weren't many moose furs. So I went with what they had. I found a dark brown bear rug, which had rather long hairs for a moose, but a little shave would fix that all up.
I then said to the cashier, I said: How much do you want for that bear rug?
He said back to me: It's not for sale.
That was a bit of a problem. So I thought about my priorities and I decided that I should think of a new plan. I was up to rob the antique store so I could go and tell off the park-man and show him what a real moose is made of.1
There was another problem; I also needed something to cut the fur with. So I went to any old store since every old store sells a pair of scissors. This is where I was met with another problem. All the scissors that that this store sold were packaged in boxes which would require more scissors to open them. I only had enough pocket change on me to buy one pair of scissors.
So I was out of my way again looking around. This time I considered getting something to open the scissor package with so I could cut the fur. But first I needed the fur, so I needed something to break into the antique store to steal the fur before anything else. The problem with that was that anything I bought had to be opened with scissors and I had just established the fact firmly in my mind that packaging companies are made of evil and deranged people.
I gave up. I marched right back over to that park—I did. I snapped on my cheap antlers and ran right passed that park-man yelling and screaming about who was the fool now. He was the fool now and I am proud to say that I got shot three times that day. By the park-man—moose season was cancelled years ago after they all went extinct.
1.This is a figure of speech. I still had to shave the thick fur to make it look like a real moose's. So technically I was not made of a real moose.
Flash Fiction Month 2014 -- July 3rd, 2014.
Literature
Stories About Magic - Volume Seven
BLOOD MOON
The Good Knight Moon swooped down and perched himself on the throbbing, crimson branch of a TrueHeart tree. It was the disturbance the High Lords felt from the Sacred Forest of Soban that Sir. Moon had originally set out to handle.
Down in a clearing an exceptionally beautiful young girl was kneeling by a tree, seeming to be content examining its partly exposed roots. But despite her golden hair, pale skin, and breathtaking violet eyes; what made Moon's heart almost stop was the large, deep red circle drawn on the ancient stone stage in the center of the clearing. Inside the circe were structures drawn of the same chalk, that Moo
Literature
Water from a Stone
Tamalynd stared into the sky and waited for the rain.
Her mother stood beside her and asked what she was thinking.
Tamalynd wanted to bring down the clouds, so to obtain
delicious water from inside, a gift for the drinking.
Mother told Tamalynd that the rains would not fall again,
at least not until the spirits decreed they were worthy.
Tamalynd asked if a spirit needed to hear their lament,
should not the tribe send someone to go out on the journey.
But mother explained that the spirits were conservators
and operated under the guiding eye of the moon.
So Tamalynd told the growing throng of obser
Literature
Thoughtful Word Choices
Have you ever noticed the way a few words— can make all the difference in a story? Such as to paint a scene where golden leaves drift off a tree in autumn then get crunched underfoot by little boots on their way to a bus stop rather than to have the dried remnants of a summertime gone plucked from those same branches in the fall by a cold wind to get crushed by shoes along a cement sidewalk? …conscious choices made for desired impressions
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
Word count: 658
Goal: 2/8
1. Something About Coffee
2. The Trouble With Meese
3. My Holiday's Heist
4. Warm Laundry
5. My Spider Wears a Tinfoil Hat
6. There's a Spider in my Anyways
7. Cannibalism Needs Thought
Moose is an abomination of a word. The fact that the plural of moose is not meese is a very pressing matter I feel that we all need to address, riot, and complain about over social forums.
And hey, I'm Canadian; I'm allowed to write about meese season.
If you like my flash fiction for the annual flash fiction month, you can check out my previous one here: fav.me/d7oshlh
Goal: 2/8
1. Something About Coffee
2. The Trouble With Meese
3. My Holiday's Heist
4. Warm Laundry
5. My Spider Wears a Tinfoil Hat
6. There's a Spider in my Anyways
7. Cannibalism Needs Thought
Moose is an abomination of a word. The fact that the plural of moose is not meese is a very pressing matter I feel that we all need to address, riot, and complain about over social forums.
And hey, I'm Canadian; I'm allowed to write about meese season.
If you like my flash fiction for the annual flash fiction month, you can check out my previous one here: fav.me/d7oshlh
Comments28
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I thought the plural of moose was also moose?! Also wouldn't it still be "moose season" in singular? How did our hero "accidentally" get shot if he wasn't even wearing a fur? And is this some sort of deeper metaphor about the furry experience?
Bleh, I'll die without any of that stuff answered.
Bleh, I'll die without any of that stuff answered.