This Lovely Lard…


…Just sat on my plateful of frogs (see the last post in the archive).


Cars blowing up. Plural.


Cardiac muscles misbehaving. Also plural on that.


Fevers flaring, requiring comfort food.


And you know it’s bad when I’ve been called on to provide comfort food. I nearly cooked the darn CAT in the process, so I had to let Walmart handle the majority of the heavy lifting. True Story. More on that next week.


And someone sent us a fire pit. Also true.


We didn’t order a fire pit, either on purpose or by accident so far as I can tell.


We’ve not been in the market for one.


FREE FICTION

When an errant pharmacy dispenses an unwanted drug, Tristan is understandably perplexed. But unwanted and unneeded are not the same thing, and Tristan might live to regret his decisions… or not.


Tristan Lee slammed the contents of his suit jacket onto his dresser after a long day at the office. The phone didn’t stop ringing. All. Day. Long. He splashed water on his face and looked at his graying hair in the mirror, hair growing increasingly lighter and looser by the month.


In college, Tristan had dreamed of creating a base of clients that he could take from zero to hero—financially speaking—but what he’d gotten was a bunch of whiny middle-aged men who hadn’t planned for their futures and now wanted Tristan to be their rainmaker with little capital and even less time.


Friday afternoon had come none too soon. He tossed off his suit and left it crumpled on the closet floor of his single bedroom sublet with a bad view of a brick wall across the street. The only time the view changed was when the neighborhood hoodlums graffitied over the painted mess they’d made the weekend before. Last weekend it was a red devil with purple horns and some scrawl above its head he couldn’t quite make out.


He tugged on his jeans and threw on a twice-worn t-shirt that would pass if he put on extra deodorant and cologne. He pulled the bedroom shade, letting the fabric roll too far into the roller.


The devil was still staring at him.

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Copyright © 2019 by B.A. Paul
All work is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. All work published on this site, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Beth's passion for writing started in grade school with an epic outer space adventure scribbled on 158 sheets of wide-ruled notebook paper with not-sharp-enough pencils. That manuscript was lost in a basement flood.


Thirty years, marriage, two kids and several dogs later, she's garnered enough story fodder to resurrect her passion—and this time she backs up her work!


She currently resides in Indiana with her family and a couple of meowing fur babies who enjoy walking across her keyboard.