writing

Flash Fiction: IgNobel Prize

/ Diane Henders / 2 Comments

This is another flash fiction challenge.  Our assignment:  choose something from the “M” section of Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, and write up to 1500 words before Friday.

The “M” section is enormous.  I started reading the first page and quickly went into overload, so I clicked on a page, closed my eyes, and randomly clicked the mouse to select my phrase.  The phrase is at the end, ‘cause if you read the phrase first, there’s no point in telling the story.

*F-BOMB ALERT* – CONTAINS (more) COARSE LANGUAGE (than usual)

IgNobel Prize

“We’re really putting our asses on the line.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Martin snapped.  “It’s worth it.  Pass me that pipette.”

“No, really.”  Devon handed over the glassware and pushed his glasses up again, peering through the thick lenses.  “It was fine as a theoretical exercise, but going ahead with it?  There’s a reason why the senior researchers won’t touch this.”

Martin blew out an impatient breath, careful to direct it away from the delicately balanced equipment.  “Yeah, there’s a reason.  They’re pussies.”

When Devon didn’t reply immediately, Martin spared him a quick glance.  “Come on, man, don’t be a douche.  The simulations went fine, and our dry run was perfect.”  He transferred his attention back to the digital temperature readout.  “We’re almost there.  Let’s gear up.”

He slipped on the goggles, gloves, and mask, but Devon hung back.  “Martin, we shouldn’t be doing this at all without faculty approval, and even if we had approval, we should be doing it in a clean room, not in an open lab.  If we get some contaminant in the solution…”

“Jesus, Devon, how many friggin’ sims did we run?  Yeah, it’s critical, but we’re not talking nanoparticles here.  Unless some big chunk of lint or something falls in, it’ll be okay.  Just don’t drop any of your goddamn hairs in it, and we’ll be fine.”

Devon stiffened and glared.  “You just have to keep rubbing it in, don’t you, Mr. Perfect-Hair-Chick-Magnet?  Just because I’m follicularly challenged…”

“Jeez, dude, chill.  Can we please get back to the experiment that’s going to make us household names in the scientific community?  The one that’s going to make us a fortune and win us the Nobel Prize?  You know, that one?”

“Or the one that’s going to blow up the lab, and us with it.  Martin, this isn’t a good idea.  Let’s just shut it down for today and run it by the senior researchers on Monday morning.”

“Yeah, so they can take all the credit.  I don’t think so.”  Martin shot another look at the temperature readout.  “Come on, man, set me up here.  It’s time.”

Devon shuffled over, reluctance in every line of his body.  Martin placed his forearms in the supports that would hold his hands rock-steady and nodded up at Devon’s frown.  “Go.”

With the precision Martin had always secretly envied, Devon placed the instruments in Martin’s waiting hands.  Devon was by far the better technician.  Good thing he was too much of a chickenshit to do this on his own.  Martin suppressed a smile.  He was the one actually doing the procedure, so he’d get the bulk of the recognition.  And the money.

A hair drifted down.  “Devon, for fucksake, you’re shedding again!  Get your fucking hair out of here!”

“Sorry, sorry!”  Devon whisked the loose hair off the workbench and drew back, one hand self-consciously covering the thinning spot where his scalp peeked through.

Martin jerked as his phone vibrated on the table beside him.  “Jesus!  I thought I’d turned that off.”

Devon turned an ashen face toward him.  “Holy… crap!  Thank God we hadn’t started the fluid.  You’d have blown us up, twitching like that.”

“Yeah, man, turn it off for me, would you?”  Martin held his voice steady and took a few deep breaths, feigning calm.

Devon snatched up the still-vibrating phone.  “It’s Lisa.  Why is she calling you?”

Martin gulped down sudden consternation.  “I don’t know, man, just turn it off…  Shit!”

Devon had punched the Talk button, his round face glowing with happiness.  “Hi, Lisa.”

Martin’s fingers tensed around the instruments, and he concentrated on relaxing his grip to hold them just so.  He couldn’t put them down now.

His heart sank at the look on Devon’s face.  Shit, shit, shit!

“Lisa, this isn’t Martin, it’s Devon.”  Devon’s voice was hollow, and Martin averted his eyes from his friend’s stricken face.  Well, probably ex-friend, now.  He could hear the urgent chatter at the other end of the line, but Devon interrupted, his voice flat.  “I might have believed that, if you hadn’t said his name before you started your little X-rated phone show.  Goodbye, Lisa.”

The silence stretched after Devon hung up the phone.  Martin studied the temperature readout intently.

“So how long have you been screwing my girlfriend?”  Devon’s voice was very quiet.

“Aw, come on, man, it’s not like that.”

“But it is.  She started with some very graphic references to last night.  Before she went on to say what she had planned for you tonight.”

Martin blew out a breath and tried to ease his tense fingers.  “Jesus, it’s not like I’m the only one.  She’s a science slut, man.  She fucks everybody in the research department at least once, just in case they discover something important somewhere down the road.”  He glanced up.  “Christ, don’t look so shocked.  Did you really think a hot piece like Lisa was doing you for your manly physique and great hair?”

He realized he’d gone too far when Devon turned on his heel and strode away.

“Shit, Devon, I’m sorry, man!  I thought you knew…  Come back!  Shit, man, come on!”  He couldn’t turn to see, but the sound of the slamming door told him all he needed to know.

He slumped on the stool, the instruments still balanced in his fingers.  Everything ready to go, and nobody to turn the petcock to start the final flow of fluid.  All the preparation, all his dreams, all the fame and fortune, shot to hell.

A sudden thought made him straighten, excitement racing through his veins.  What if…?

Martin leaned ever so slowly toward the petcock.  Yes, it was close enough.  And he only had to turn it a few degrees counter-clockwise.  He could push it with his nose.  His heart pounded.

Devon was gone, wouldn’t be there for the completion of the procedure.  All the credit would go to Martin.  All the fame, all the money… and Lisa would be all over him.  He grinned and shifted carefully to ease the tightening denim at his crotch as he considered what she’d promised if the experiment succeeded.

Careful, careful…  He nudged the petcock open, and triumph surged through him at the slow drip of fluid into the open chamber.  Temperature perfect, the instruments steady in his hands, all according to plan.

Something moved at the edge of his vision, and cold fingers of fear caressed the back of his neck as he focused on it.  A hair.  Quivering just above his left eye.

He held very still.  Can’t turn back now.  The fluid dripped inexorably.

It must still be attached.  He never lost hair.

It was moving.

His heart banged in his chest, sledgehammer blows that made him gasp.  The hair vibrated with each beat.  Slipping.

Martin huffed desperate breaths, his lower lip pushed out in a futile attempt to blow the hair up and away.  Shouldn’t have worn the goddamn mask!  Shouldn’t have-

**************

The phrase:  “For a hair Martin lost his ass”, from the “Martin to Mary Anne Associations” page

Doin’ It On A Dare

/ Diane Henders / 22 Comments

This may reflect badly on the sexual preferences of my ancestors, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got donkey DNA in me somewhere.

The stronger the resistance, the harder I dig in my heels.  And I’m genetically programmed to respond to dares: 

Challenger:  “Betcha can’t do that!”  Me:  “Oh, yeah?  Watch me!”  This can be a useful trait at times, but I’m trying to overcome it.  Those who know me well are starting to catch on.

Hubby:  “Betcha won’t clean the bathroom, do the laundry, wash my car, and make me a gourmet meal tonight!”  Me:  “Oh, yeah?  Watch… hey, wait a minute…”

I prefer to think that my life has been enriched by the activities that I never would have tried if I hadn’t been dared to do them.

I never would have ridden to the top of that scree slope on my dirt bike.  The view was amazing.  ‘Course, the trip down got a little exciting when my brakes faded and gave out from the heat.  And yeah, I caused a minor rockslide.  But I didn’t actually hurt anything when I had to run into the side of the hill to stop. 

I never would have known how many little channels and islands there are in Lake of the Woods if I hadn’t taken off on impulse on a five-day canoe trip with a couple of friends. 

In retrospect, it probably would have been better if I’d told somebody I was going.  And the trip could have been improved if we hadn’t ended up stranded for two days at our pickup point.  And it might have been nice if my ride back hadn’t dumped me ‘way the hell out in the Mission Industrial area of Winnipeg.  Without money or a map.  On a Sunday.  I’m still not sure what I did to piss him off.  But hey, you can’t have everything.  The canoeing part was great.

Those who know me have given up daring me to eat unusual foods.  If it qualifies as food somewhere in the world, I’ve probably already tried it.  Or I’m willing to try it.  If you dare me. 

And don’t bother daring me to eat non-food items.  I’ve probably already done that, too.  My childhood experiment with the coloured chalk comes vividly (pun intended) to mind.

And let’s not forget jumping off the highest object you can find.  Fortunately for my bones, I grew up in the part of Manitoba that’s as flat as piss on a platter.  The best I managed was a twelve-foot drop off one of the lifeguard towers at Grand Beach.  No, not into the water.  That would’ve been smart. 

To this day, I’m unable to sneak up a flight of stairs, because it sounds like somebody is enthusiastically popping bubble wrap under both of my kneecaps.  But at least I’m not afraid of heights.

What’s best (or worst) thing you ever did on a dare?

Flash Fiction: Salvation In The Bottle

/ Diane Henders / 4 Comments

This was inspired by a flash fiction contest over at Confessions From Suite 500.  We had to write a story in 100 words or less, including the following words:

Personal
Demons
Hellbent
Original
Sin
And we got bonus points for using the phrase “A Devil’s Own”. 

Here it is.  As always, all constructive criticism welcomed and appreciated.

Salvation In The Bottle

“Aagh, darlin’, help me up.  I’ve a devil’s own headache.”

“Which you deserve.”

“Have mercy on yer poor da.  ‘Tis a sin to waste liquor.”

“It’s a sin to lie to me about laying your personal demons to rest and putting things right.  If it’d been high tide, I’d have taken the boat and let you swim home, cancer or no.”

“I’m hellbent, an’ no mistake.  But, darlin’, that was yer grandda’s last original bottle.”

“You’re not going to revive that hoary old fable again… what’s that?”

“A diamond.”

“It’s huge!”

“Sometimes salvation’s in the bottle, darlin’.  I love ye.”

Scarred By Cabbages

/ Diane Henders / 6 Comments

Many thanks to Charles Gulotta over at Mostly Bright Ideas for giving me the inspiration for today’s post.  His “Painfully Employed” Part 1 and Part 2 made me think of my most memorable and psychologically devastating childhood job:  selling cabbages door to door.

It’s okay.  Go ahead and laugh.  I can laugh about it now, too, almost forty years later.

I grew up on a farm in Manitoba.  When my older brother was a pre-teen, he sold potatoes in town.  He did the digging and bagging, Mom drove him to town, and he got to keep the money.  I’m pretty sure this wasn’t his idea.  I’m guessing it was an attempt by my parents to nurture entrepreneurial spirit.  I suspect they succeeded in nurturing a lifelong hatred of all things potato-sales-related.

I was more than three years younger, an impressionable age.  I was staggered by the sheer abundance of wealth that poured into his pockets from this endeavour.  It was probably about five bucks in total, but my allowance was ten cents a week.  Woooeeeeee!

Being the pain-in-the-ass kid that I was, I badgered my mother for equal fiscal opportunity.  Little did I know.

It was a good year for growing cabbage that year.  Breathless with anticipation of untold riches, I trailed my long-suffering mother as she brought the cabbages in from the garden, weighed them, and marked prices on them.  I was too young to carry more than one cabbage at a time, and multiplication was beyond me, but I made up for these deficiencies with sheer enthusiasm.

Reality intruded on my dream once we arrived in town.  I had to actually walk up to a house, ring the doorbell, and talk to a stranger.  And try to sell them a cabbage.

Girl Scouts have it easy.  They’re selling cookies.  Who doesn’t like cookies?  And the cookies are all neatly packaged in attractive boxes.  Try selling somebody a wormy cabbage and see how fast you pay for those new uniforms.

But perhaps I’m bitter.

Amazingly, I did manage to sell a few cabbages.  Maybe my customers felt sorry for this little kid clutching a cabbage bigger than her head.  Or maybe they were just paying me to go away.  For the few cents that I was charging, it was probably a good investment.

I lost interest in cabbage sales with remarkable speed.  And I remain scarred for life by the memory of trying to convince people to buy something that they didn’t need, want, or even like.  I never worked in retail again.  To this day, the words “sales career” send a cold chill down my spine. 

But if some little kid tries to sell me something, I usually buy.

What’s your worst job ever?

It’s… Alive!

/ Diane Henders / 15 Comments

According to scientists, life is nothing more than zillions of electrical impulses zapping through a lump of meat.  Plants show measurable electrical activity, too.

This makes me wonder.

If life is really just electrical impulses, are our electronic devices alive?  It would certainly explain a lot. 

I tend to talk to inanimate objects.  Sometimes with great feeling and vigour.  At high volume.  Usually involving phrases like “piece of shit”.  Lately, though, I’ve been rethinking my approach.  It all started with my car. 

Several years ago, we stayed overnight in Banff.  The temperature dropped to minus 30, and my husband went out to start the car while I waded through the checkout process in the hotel lobby.  Some time later, he shivered his way back into the lobby to inform me that the car was completely dead.  The engine wouldn’t turn over.  It didn’t even click.  It was frozen solid.

I’ve always been a pigheaded git, so I had to see for myself.  The fact that we’re still married is a testament to my husband’s tolerance. 

I slid into the driver’s seat, patted the car’s dashboard, and crooned, “Poor little car!  It’s just too cold for you, isn’t it?”  Then I turned the key.  The car started instantly.

Coincidence?  I think not.  There’s more.

We have an ancient boat-anchor of a printer.  It’s slightly younger than I am, and weighs almost as much.  It’s gradually becoming more and more temperamental, but we put up with it because I can buy the toner super-cheap on eBay, and because I have moral objections to purchasing a new duplexing colour laser printer whose toner cartridges cost more than the printer itself.

The printer moans, groans, jams, inexplicably has errors that require a restart, and frequently fails to print one or more colours.  While this has resulted in some truly interesting magenta-toned images, it’s really not all that useful.  And it’s damn frustrating when you’re trying to print under any sort of deadline.

Applying my newfound understanding of electronic sentience, I stopped swearing at it several months ago.  Instead, I pat it gently and chirp encouragement.  This has three purposes. 

Firstly, I’m sucking up to the printer just in case it’s listening.  Secondly, it keeps my blood pressure down.  And lastly, it drives my husband bonkers when the printer cooperatively spits out copy after copy for me, and then locks up solid with an insolent grinding sound as soon as he tries to print something. 

Yeah, he still swears at it.

Sadly, baby-talking the printer also makes me look like a complete moron, but what the hell, I’ve never been overendowed with dignity.  And it’s really nice when the printer works.

Do you talk to your electronics?  Do they talk back?  Are they… alive?

Die-Hard Bob Seger Fan

/ Diane Henders / 12 Comments

This past week, I was in Toronto to see Bob Seger in concert.  For me, Bob Seger has always been (and probably will always be) the complete package.  The music, the lyrics, the voice – nobody else quite measures up.

I’ve been a fan for a few decades, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen him live.  When I found out he was coming to Toronto, I bought my concert ticket and booked my flight from Calgary ASAP.  Could I afford it?  Not really.  Did I think twice about it?  Hell, no.  He’s saying that this might be his last tour, and I was willing to do whatever it took to see him.

Little did I know.

First, there was the cost of the concert ticket and the plane ticket, as well as taking four days off to get to a Tuesday-night concert on the other side of the country.  No problem.

Trying to save a bit of money, I stayed with a friend in her studio apartment.  I slept in a narrow walkway on the floor, on a makeshift bed of two cushions scavenged from the loveseat.  I’m 5’10”.  The loveseat?  About 4’6”.  But it was fine once I stuffed a chair cushion under my feet.

Her two cats had never witnessed someone sleeping on the floor.  I was thoroughly and frequently inspected.  I sleep on my back, which would be an unimportant piece of information unless you also know that the cats’ climbing tree was right beside the spot where I slept.  You don’t know the meaning of “rude awakening” until a six-pound cat drops from a great height to land on your unprotected belly at three o’clock in the morning.  Lucky thing I really like cats.

My friend kindly offered to pick me up after the concert, reasoning that it would be difficult to catch a cab downtown at that hour on a Tuesday night.  I stood at the corner of Bay Street and the Gardiner Expressway waiting for her, watching the long line of cabs whisk all the other concert-goers home.  The parking lot across the street emptied.  Soon I stood completely alone in the darkness in an unfamiliar city.  It was okay.  I only had one proposition, and he graciously took no for an answer.

On the way home, I was singled out for the “random” physical search at the airport.  Four out of the last five times I’ve flown, I’ve been chosen for this search, so I have to question the randomness of the selection process.  Normally, I’d be mildly flattered that they can’t keep their hands off my body, but… really?

I figure the Airport Authority is missing a huge customer-service opportunity here.  If I have to get groped, they should offer me a lineup of attractive security guys to choose from.  Getting felt up could at least be an enjoyable experience.

As my plane descended in Calgary, I kept glancing out the window and seeing only whiteness.  “Must be low overcast,” I said to myself.  The jolt of wheels on landing strip alerted me to the fact that there really was only whiteness out there.  A foot of snow had fallen the previous night.  I wore runners.

It was the best trip ever.

Seriously.  I loved every minute of the concert.  He put on a great show, and the joy of being there was well worth a few minor inconveniences.  I didn’t come down from my concert high (non-chemically-induced, thank-you) for days.  Hell, I’d pay good money to hear Bob Seger sing anything.  Even “Happy Birthday”.

Any other Seger fans out there?  What’s your best/worst concert experience?

Possum Panini

/ Diane Henders / 9 Comments

The other day in our staff meeting, we started talking about roadkill.  Don’t ask why.  Let’s just say that our staff meetings are rarely predictable.  The conversation devolved, not only to roadkill, but to the eating thereof. 

And Sharon blurted out “Possum panini!”

And I said, “You know, that just sounds naughty.  It’s like you’re using a euphemism for an itty-bitty possum  p…”

Subsequent embellishments on this theme left us holding our sides and weeping tears of laughter/agony.  It took awhile before we actually got back to business.

Afterwards, I started thinking about the oddities of the English language.  Some words just sound… rude.  Even if they’re not.  Lists of these have already been compiled, by people far more eloquent and twisted than I.  Just Google “words that sound dirty but aren’t”.  Hell, there’s even a Facebook group.

It’s easy to see why most of those words made the lists.  They’re pretty close to other words that generally don’t get used in polite company.  But certain “innocent” words bother me, too.  Here are a few:

Flaccid – Maybe because the “fla-” phonetic is an onomatopoeia for the sound of a limp dead fish being slapped against a hard surface?  I dunno.  The word just grosses me out.

Flabby – Probably because it’s flaccid’s cousin, but jigglier.  You know what I mean.  We’re talkin’ Jello smacked against a hard surface.  Same sound effect, different visual.

Puce – Maybe because it looks/sounds too much like “puke”?  Because it means “flea” in French?  Because it’s part of the word “prepuce”?  Because it’s necessary to wrinkle your nose when you pronounce it?  “Peeuuwss…”  So many possibilities, but it offends me on some deep level.  It seems to me that the colour it describes should be revolting snot-green, not dark brownish-purple.

Juggernaut – I haven’t a clue why, but this word just annoys me.

Scenario – Seems filled with self- importance.  It reminds me of the clichéd B-movie villain twirling his moustache and chortling.  Mustachio?  Scenario?  Maybe there’s some association there.

Indeed – I know the reason for my antipathy towards “indeed”.  A certain writer for a certain magazine uses it so frequently that I’ve developed a permanent allergy.  I’ve wanted to write a letter to the editor for about three years now, but I can’t figure out a way to do it without sounding like a wack job.  So I included it here instead.  Somehow it’s more acceptable to look like a wack job on my own blog.

Despite my hang-ups, I still use these words when necessary.  When it’s the right word, ya gotta use it.  Well, except “juggernaut”.  I draw the line at that.

What about you?  What words drive you crazy for no particular reason?  Or am I the only one with this problem?

Tip: Using Highlights For Editing

/ Diane Henders / 2 Comments

Since I make my living as a geek, I’ll occasionally share techie tricks that I use to make my life easier as a writer.

Drop me a comment below or contact me if there’s something specific you want to know.  I’ll help if I can.

Here’s my tip of the day:

Using Highlights for Editing

When I’m writing in MS Word, I use highlights to mark places where my document needs work.  I use a blue highlight to indicate “unfinished”, a green highlight to indicate “needs research”, and a yellow highlight to indicate “needs to be fixed”.  That way, if I’m on a roll, I can just keep writing and come back to the problem area later.

In a 400-page document, it can get difficult to find all the highlighted areas.  That’s a lot of scrolling. 

Fortunately, you can search your document for highlights and jump to them automatically. 

How To Do It:  Highlighting

Step 1:  Find the Highlight button
It looks like this:  

In Word 2003 and earlier, go to the Formatting toolbar.  If you don’t have that toolbar turned on, you can enable it by clicking on the View menu, choosing Toolbars, and then clicking Formatting; or
In Word 2007 and 2010, it’s on the Home tab.

Step 2:  Choose your colour
Click on the little arrowhead to the right of the button, and choose a colour from the dropdown box.

Step 3:  Highlight
Click and drag your mouse over the text to apply the highlight.

Step 4:  Stop highlighting
When you’re done, click on the Highlight button again to disable highlighting.

Note:  Removing highlights
To remove highlights, click and drag to select the highlighted text in your document, then click the arrowhead on the Highlight button and choose “No colour” from below the coloured boxes.

How To Do It:  Searching for Highlighting

Step 1:  Set up the search

In Word 2003 and earlier, click on the Edit menu and choose Find; or
In Word 2007 and 2010, click on the Find button on the Home tab.

If the dialog box shows a More button at the bottom, click on it to expand the dialog box.  If you see a Less button, you can skip this step (it means the dialog box is already expanded).

Click on the Format button at the bottom of the dialog box, and choose Highlight.  You’ll notice that your search box now includes the words “Format:  Highlight” right under the “Find What” box at the top.

Step 2:  Search for highlights

Make sure there’s no text in the “Find What” box (unless you want to search for a specific word or phrase that’s highlighted).  As long as the “Find What” box is blank, the search will find all highlighted text.

Click on the Find Next button.  Keep doing this until you find the highlighted section you’re looking for.

Step 3:  Remove Highlight from the search criteria**

In the search box, click on the Format button again, and select Highlight.  You’ll notice that now your search says “Format:  Not Highlight” under the “Find what” box.  Repeat the process, and the “Format:” line will disappear.

Type a word, any word, in the “Find what” box, and click the Find Next button once.  This saves the settings so that you won’t be searching for highlights the next time you use the search box.

Close the search box.

**This isn’t essential to the process, but it saves you some frustration the next time you want to look for words alone instead of highlighted words.

Hangin’ in the Men’s WC

/ Diane Henders / 21 Comments

Let me tell you about my experiences lurking in men’s washrooms.  Carrying a measuring tape.

First, I have to say that men’s washrooms are (sorry, guys) disgusting.  There’s piss everywhere.  And those urinal pucks with the pubic hairs stuck in them?  Eeeuuw.

You may argue that, as a female, I should stay out of men’s washrooms, and that if I don’t like what I see in there, it’s my own damn fault.  This would be entirely true, if not for the fact that it was part of my job to be in there.  Yeah, with a measuring tape.

This was back in the dark days when I was still attempting to be an interior designer.  I’d gotten a friggin’ bachelor’s degree in it.  Thesis and all.  Trouble was, I sucked at it.  Hard.  The only reason I scraped through with the degree was because I kicked ass in all the academic subjects (the ones that dealt with real, objective facts). 

I couldn’t design my way out of a paper bag.

This wasn’t as much of an impediment as you might think.  I worked for a design firm that specialized in commercial spaces – offices, hotels, restaurants, and so forth.  A very large part of that type of work involves long, tedious hours measuring the sites and doing technical drawings.  I was excellent at that part.  And all the other designers hated it.  It was the perfect symbiotic relationship.

Which leads to me lurking in men’s washrooms carrying a measuring tape.  Because when you’re doing renovations, the whole damn place needs to be measured.

I had a system.

First, I’d hover outside the door for several minutes.  If a guy actually arrived to use the washroom, I’d ask him to scout it out for me.  I really had no desire to catch anybody with their pants down.

But usually, I was on my own.  After a decent interval, I’d knock on the door and call out.  If there was no response, I’d stick a sign on the door, “Temporarily closed – come back in 15 minutes.”

That usually worked.  But every now and then, some preoccupied guy would blow right past the sign and barrel into the washroom.  He’d usually get about half unzipped before he realized I was there.  Then there’d be this frozen deer-in-the-headlights moment, while his gaze darted between my female presence and the partially extended measuring tape in my hand.

We’d lock eyes for a second, both of us with tools half-unfurled.

Then there was usually some embarrassed mumbling, a half-assed explanation, and a hasty retreat on his part.  Sometimes they just fled without a word.  Frankly, that was more entertaining for me.  But I have a nasty streak.

While I’m on the subject, there were a couple of other things that I invariably found entertaining about washrooms.  The first was the colour scheme (excluding piss-yellow, which isn’t entertaining at all).  I was truly amazed by how many places stuck with the tried and true pink-for-girls, blue-for-boys colour scheme.  Really?  For adults?  In a business setting?

But for me, the best part was the condom dispensers.  In those fine establishments that provided this helpful service, it was always the same.  In the men’s, the condoms were always labelled “extra large” or some other turgid (or perhaps I should say tumid) adjective.

In the women’s they were always labelled “slim fit”.

I’m not even gonna go there. 

I’m just sayin’.

Anybody else got bathroom stories?  Ever walked into the wrong one by mistake?  Or on purpose?  Inquiring minds want to know.

Flash Fiction: That Man

/ Diane Henders / 14 Comments

Another flash fiction challenge.  We get one week and up to 1000 words.  This one only needed 100.

Here’s our prompt:

All constructive criticism welcomed and appreciated, as always.

That Man

“Mummy, Mummy, look at that man!”

“Shhh, Donny.  It’s not polite to point.”

“But, Mummy, look!  What’s wrong with him?”

“Shhh.  He’s just different, that’s all.  Look, here’s your toy.”

“Was he in a ak-sident?”

“No, honey, he was born that way.  Look, what does the happy skeleton say?  Boo-oo-oo!”

“M-m-mummy, that man… he’s… he’s scary.”

“Shhh, Donny, look, here’s your toy.”

“B-but what’s wrong with his face?”

“That’s called a lower jaw, honey.  Some people are born with them.  It just takes them longer to change.  Don’t worry, he’ll change, too.  He’ll be fine.  Just like you and me.”