Bacon Product of the week...

... is Bacon Lube!

That's right, for those time's you need to remind a vegetarian/vegan partner what they're missing, or as a subtle hint at what you'd like for breakfast the following morning, it's Bacon Lube!



But please be sure to use responsibly, and in moderation.

Kinetic Art

Kinetic Art

by Alex Azar

This was an interesting letter. I'm pretty sure I bent the subject matter a little but technically it's still mostly accurate. I really like the concept of this story, and feel it has room to grow from flash fiction into at least a short story, so keep your eyes out for a revisit here.

“Fuck my life.”

“Please refrain from cursing, the audience can hear every word you say.” The voice informs Kenny with a stern tone through the mesh circle of the speaker above his head.

Kenny looks up at the speaker, shrugs his shoulders, “Sorry, I'm not even the type to curse much, but I never expected my life to bring me here.” He motions up and down his body indicating his lack of clothing, save for his wedgie inducing speedo.

“I'm a struggling artist confined to a store front window, damn near naked, as a piece of living art.”

“Kinetic art.” the voice corrects.

“Whatever you call it, I say FML.” As he gently bangs against the glass.

“Its only been three hours, Mr. Anderson. You're companions have yet to begin to complain. Do you plan on continuing this everyday?”

Kenny gives the speaker the finger before contemplating the terms of his contract: 12 hours a day for 30 days to do whatever he likes, however he;s provided no electronics or contact with the outside world beyond the ever watching crowd opposite the window. He's to bring his own food and use the crudely built toilet in view of all. And for reasons he can't finger out, he must only wear a speedo at all times.

These companions that this voice referred to are three other individuals under a similar contract. All four subjects have supplies and resources to work their chosen craft. For Kenny that means an easel and canvas with a full arrangement of brushes and palate of colors. Supposedly the others each specify in a different medium, but he can't say for sure since he's never met any of them.

Additionally, he hasn't even met the coordinator of this 'kinetic art' display. All communications thus far have been via email. Kenny was concerned at first, but when he was offered ten grand for a month's worth of no-work, he couldn't pass it up.

“Come on, hasn't it been twelve hours yet?” frustrated Kenny asks the faceless voice box.

“It's only been five hours Mr. Anderson. The door will automatically open when the twelve hours have elapsed. This exhibit is not intended to be interactive with me, please cease all communications, unless it is directed to the audience.”

“Does this mean you won't answer any more of my questions?

…

“Douche”

During the following two weeks, Kenny develops a routine: reporting in at two, 'people watch' for a few hours, have dinner, work on his new piece, but since he doesn't know what it'll be, progress is slow. Also since this project has begun, he's done more reading than in any other period in his life.

Not once in these two weeks has he heard from the speaker, but Kenny has this unconfirmed feeling that the person behind the voice is still watching. He often entertains the thought that one of the spectators that passes by daily is him, but he doesn't even know how to narrow down the field of spectators to make a choice.

Most of the day there's at least several people that pass by in an hour, but the street is just off the beaten path enough that around midnight there isn't anyone. It's at this time that he saves for his business on the toilet. Most days he'll sleep till the door opens, or tries to paint something.

On day seventeen his daily defecation was interrupted by a high pitched scream. Kenny looks up just in time to see a woman being dragged into a van. Kenny yells for help, which prompts the abductor to turn to Kenny. Upon noticing him, the abductor gives Kenny a devious grin and the middle finger.

“Hey, stop! I'll call the cops.” Banging frantically on the glass window, Kenny warns the abductor while simultaneously pleading for the speaker box voice to intervene. “Hey buddy, do you see what's going on? Call the cops! Hello!”

Without a response, Kenny is left to watch as the van drives off with the helpless woman in the back. He tries to break the glass while continuing to call the anonymous voice. “What the hell are you doing? Did you not see what the fuck just happened? You're not even watching anymore, are you?”

The door release Kenny soon after. Without his cellphone on hand, he quickly runs to a nearby diner and calls the police. A few hours later and the police are off with their investigation. The lead detective advises Kenny to continue his day as normal and they'll be in touch with Kenny with any developments.

An unmarked police car was stationed halfway down the block for the next two days. With nothing to show and an unrelated murder in the neighborhood, the cops were called off and reassigned. Kenny felt assured that whatever had happened was an isolated incident, and after more days was comfortable enough to resume his routine with one adjustment.

The days passed as though nothing had happened, and Kenny was once again with his pants down on day twenty eight. A similar scream as he heard over ten days ago, he looks up to again see the same man grabbing a woman, and tossing her into a similar, if not the same, van as before.

Kenny panics and stumbles when pulling up his pants, “Stop damn it, or I'll shoot!”

The abductor turns and laughs at Kenny, “Oh really? And with what gun?” With the prompt Kenny produces a .44 magnum, like the one Dirty Harry used, from his lunch bag. “Woah man, don't do anything stupid! Listen Mr. ...”

Before the abductor can finish what he was trying to say Kenny fires the gun, sending a bullet through the window and hitting it's target square in the shoulder. Over the cries of pain from the abductor Kenny hears the woman yelling back at him, “Kenny, what did you do?”

Fighting past the pain the abductor says through gritted teeth, “Mr. Anderson, you don't understand. You weren't the art, you were the subject, and you reacted beautifully!”

“Do I still get paid?”

The End

Unfortunately, at this point The Alphabet Project will be going on hiatus.  I wanted to be able to consistently post these stories until it's completion, however this will not be the case.  I've currently been working on other writings to actually be published, and have decided to focus my attention on those stories.  I'm very happy with how this project has developed and will definitely revisit and complete the alphabet, so keep an eye out for 'L' in the near future.

Bacon product number 1 is...

... but wait, before we get to that, let's make it clear that bacon is the world's greatest condiment, and goes well with almost any food.  Anyone who thinks bacon is not a condiment you are wrong.  I most often hear the argument that a condiment has to be a liquid, but then they get proven wrong when I mention salt, pepper, or horseradish.

Now that, that is out of the way, we can focus on the many ways bacon has permeated into life beyond the norm, so the first Bacon product is...


BACONNAISE.

That's right, bacon flavored mayonnaise.  Personally, I'm not a fan of mayonnaise, and I don't imagine this being good at all, but hey with bacon it's got to be better than Miracle Whip.

Colored or Normal

Since I'm not black or yellow or brown, does this in fact mean that I am normal?

Washing Away My Demons

Everyone who knows me should know that I’m as laid back and easy going anyone could be, I’m almost always in a good mood with a smile on my face. But everyone has those days where everything goes wrong, or just one thing doesn’t go your way and it hits you like a ton of bricks. Sometimes nothing could be wrong, everything is at it should be and yet, you still can’t bring that smile to your face, its ok it happens to all of us.


How we handle those times defines how we’re viewed. For me Gene Kelly’s Singing in the Rain always brings a smile to my face. It reminds me of a time when I was legitimately always happy, and listening to it centers me.

It may be weird, but the nonstop rain on March 6th made me want to put my headphones on, play Singing in the Rain, and go for a walk amidst the constant, unfaltering, cleansing rain. Nearly an hour later I returned home thoroughly soaked, with a slightly runny nose, but I felt at ease.

Ask me how I am, and my response will always be the same “I’m always good.” And believe it or not this is the truth because I found what it takes to wash away my demons. They build up every day, but its such an easy thing to remember a better time, and remind yourself that the stress isn’t worth it. Like a good man used to say, “Don’t sweat the small stuff.”

Simply Amazing

Juicing

Juicing

by Alex Azar

“Sweetie, you know I hate seeing you do that.”

With the needle still in his arm, “Then turn around bitch.” Doing what Jermaine says, Tabitha turns so he can’t see her tears. “You know I can’t let this slip, without football I’ve got nothing.”

Looking over her shoulder, “You’ve still got me.”

Not bothering to make eye contact, “Yea, for how long?”

That was the last straw for Tabitha this week, and she storms out of her boyfriend’s dorm.

The repetitive act of making and breaking up with his current flame enrages Jermaine. He punches the wall with his left hand, for fear of injuring his throwing arm. Grabbing a bottle of low-grade tequila from his top drawer, “Coach Conic, she just doesn’t understand. All this is to prove to you how much I still love this game.” He takes a long disgusting swig of the brown liquid, “Wish you were still here.” Another swig, “Just don’t know why you did it, what made you do it?”

***

Three years ago, a full year after Jermaine’s high school graduation, Coach Conic was found dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. A nearby suicide note explained that after his team’s perfect season and ensuing retirement he feared spending a lifetime “post perfection”. He ‘knew’ that no experience would ever be as satisfying.

He went on to address the players that served under him this season, and everyone before, asking them to not follow in his footsteps, but to remember what he taught them. Stating, that although he had no kids of his own, Conic was as proud of them as any father could be.

His funeral was attended by nearly every player he ever coached, including the two that made it o the pros. He was given an incredible ceremony, despite his unchristian death. He was even buried in his coach’s jacket.

The shock of his death affected his players differently; many who hadn’t continued to play in college joined teams almost immediately, some who had been playing quit, despite protests that Coach Conic wouldn’t have wanted it.

Jermaine, who was accepted into school on a full athletic scholarship, viewed Coach Conic’s suicide as a challenge to prove he will always play football for the love of the sport. Unfortunately, his dedication became an obsession that caused him to turn to steroids. He’s become too blinded to realize that he’s fallen into the same pitfalls the coach warned him, and the other players, about.

***

The day after his most recent break up with Tabitha, Jermaine played the worst game of his career, with two missed snaps, six sacks, three interceptions, and no touchdowns. Blaming Tabitha, the scene in his dorm was something out of “The Program”, resulting in him throwing her across the room.

Hearing the commotion, Jermaine’s center, Carl Teicher stormed the room, restraining Jermaine. “Tabitha, don’t you say a fucking word of this to anyone. Your damn fault his game was off today anyway. How the hell you gonna give him shit the night before a big game like that?”

As Carl has Jermaine pinned to the floor one of the wide receivers and another lineman enter the room. Carl tells the receiver to get Tabitha to her room and make sure she’s all right. But before she’s out the door, “Remember girl, don’t tell anyone.”

By this time Jermaine’s calmed down, “I’m cool. I’m cool; get your fat ass off me.” He explains he was so upset over the game and that he just snapped, didn’t mean to take it out on her, but she was the closest one around.

“Well QB, I think you need to stay away from her till the season’s done. At this rate we ain’t making the championship so we only got a few weeks left.”

Noticing a stash of needles exposed on the dresser the lineman interjects, “You should lay off of this too, man. You can’t deny this shit’s been fucking with you anymore.”

“No, it’s not that… I mean it is yea, but I fucked up. I was stressing, so I doubled the cycle. If I go back to my regular, I’ll be good, I swear.”

***

Jermaine did as promised, he cut down his dosage and it greatly helped his anger issues. So much so, that when his second promise resulted in Tabitha dating a basketball player, he didn’t snap. In fact he congratulated her, and warned her new boyfriend to treat her right.

All was in order again. Jermaine’s next two games were among his best, putting the disaster of a game in the back of his mind. Now it was the last game of the season, and while they may not have had the best year, Jermaine was ensuring The Timberwolves ended on a high note.

During the halftime speech, the coach is busy hyping the team up, telling them what he thinks they need to hear. Jermaine, excited to get back on the field and finish what he started, can’t help but compare his coach to Conic, and long for his high school days. Getting up to shout the huddle chant to finish the coach’s inspiration Jermaine quickly falls to his knees.

***

With it looking like The Timberwolves were going to end the season with a string of wins, they finish on the lowest note possible. Jermaine Worthman died at the age of 21 during halftime of the final game of the season from steroid abuse. It will later be discovered that he was supplied the drugs by his coach, as were several other players on the team, and players from years before.

After the tragedy, the football program suffered greatly, resulting in its eventual termination. Marred with controversy and negative press, the school would change the remaining teams’ name to The Wolves.

Several years later, a football program is reestablished, and because of Jermaine’s example, drug tests are no longer conducted by school officials, but instead by the state. The team never regained its prominence, but Jermaine Worthman’s jersey is proudly hung in the stadium.



This was a difficult one. Thinking of ‘juicing’, every story I came up with seemed like a different version of ‘Anger Management’. It was later I remember a scene from the movie The Program, which inspired the whole story. For those of you who have been following me on this project, you should recognize the main character and his mentor from a different story previously in the project, and in fact is a sequel to the ‘director’s cut’ of Coaching Team Sports that I mentioned in that ‘outro’.