So this isn’t the first short story I ever wrote, but it is the first one I’ve ever posted to a blog. I really enjoyed writing it, but would love to hear any comments or criticism of it.
Dear reader– If you want to enhance this story, try giving the narrator some sort of funny accent.
A guy is standing on a trash-covered corner bouncing a round orange ball. Why is he bouncing a ball? Because the ball is important. The ball is everything. The ball represents life, death, money, fame, love, hate, whatever. It’s an amazing fucking ball. And what kind of person doesn’t love bouncing a ball anyway? Steve McQueen bounced a ball. Are you saying you’re too good for Steve McQueen? He confounded the Nazis! He raced up and down the mean streets of San Francisco in a really sweet hot rod! If bouncing a ball is good enough for Steve Mc-fucking-Queen then it should be good enough for you, you pinko commie jerkstore.
What? You still have more questions? Is the ball not enough for ya? You dying to know previously unidentified man’s name now? It’s Jim, but that’s not the point. The point is that his name doesn’t matter. You should still be looking at the ball. Jim is just a schmuck, a pawn, a patsy, whose sole purpose in life is to make that brilliant orange ball bounce up and down. His name could be Bob, Bill, Tom, Dick, or Harry. It would have been Steve, but you’ve already stabbed that idea in the face with a rusty Lupus infected knife, didn’t ya? (note to reader: Lupus isn’t contagious)
Now all you recycle freaks out there are probably conniption-ing about the “trash-covered corner.” Well, you know what hippie? Life is shit. That latte you’re drinking, right there, costs five fucking dollars. When Steve was fighting crime in his Batmobile of Justice, his coffee was black, encased in ozone killing Styrofoam, and cost 50 cents, max. He didn’t have to tip that geeky 7/11 worker neither. Steve stiffed that guy and he would knock your soy caramel macchiato right out of your hand.
The story seems to be wrapping up pretty nice, right? Wrong! You forgot one crucial thing, junior. The twist ending. Turns out that silly little ball that you threw away like those cheap condoms that always bust at health clinic WAS ALIVE THE WHOLE TIME! You know what that makes you? A murder. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Bring your own tooth brush, soap, and learn to love that orange.
So that’s my story. You probably didn’t like it because Bill Clinton was your godfather or something. That’s fine. You can bathe in your own narrow-minded pool of sorrow all you want. But listen here, buddy. This tale of love, hate, murder, and bouncing is mine. If you don’t like it, write your own damn story.