Trending Fiction

My goal: take whatever phrases are trending on Twitter and try to use them all in a short story that skews toward the ridiculous. Any real-life people's names are not meant to reflect on their true character.
Recent Tweets @
Posts tagged "trending fiction"

As he stood, drenched in blood and sweat in the middle of the desert, Macaulay Culkin tried to remember how he had gotten there. It was midnight, and the air was cold. There were footprints in the sand behind him, and being a brilliant detective, he reasoned that he had not been in the desert for long, or these footprints would have blown away in the wind or been covered by tumbleweeds or something. He followed the tracks and soon came to a road where his 2012 Porsche 911 was still running, the passenger-side door open.

In the driver’s seat was a red velvet box and a card. “Happy Chocolate Day,” it read, and Culkin furrowed his eyebrows. Those close to him knew he was part terrier on his mother’s side, and very allergic to chocolate. To most people, this would look like a friendly gift, but Culkin knew it for what it was: an attempted hit. He threw the chocolate violently into the desert, got in his car, and headed east.

—-

Meanwhile, in his lair deep below the Gulf of America, Kirk Cameron sipped on a virgin martini, ate some virgin peanuts, and wiped his lips with a virgin napkin. He required everything he touched be virgin, not for religious reasons, but he liked the way “virgin” sounded when he said it, and wanted to say it as much as possible.

With Culkin out of the way, his goals could be more easily met. The apocalypse would come, and Cameron would make sure there was no child left behind… by freezing them in carbonite before they could sin. For some reason, people had a problem with that, and Culkin was the foremost celebrity speaking out against it.

It had been a while since Cameron had needed to hire an assassin (six months is “a while”, right?), but he was pretty sure he’d gotten a good one. He planned to pin the murder on Lebron James. Of all the things blamed on Lebron, this one was one of the most probable.

There was a knock at the door, and Cameron’s person secretary, Stelena Reunion, entered the room with another martini and a box of kittens. Ever since he’d become infested with an alien parasite, only live kittens could really sate his hunger. Stelena put the box on his desk and turned to leave, but Cameron stopped her.

"Miss… Reunion, was it? Tell me, do you have any children?"

"Oh, uh," she blushed. "I use birth control.”

Cameron frowned. He didn’t need someone like this on him team. He unhinged his jaw, and Stelena joined the kittens.

—-

The blood pounded in Culkin’s ears and his mind raced faster than his car. Only one person could be capable of this kind of work: Lebron James, one of the few people who knew about his canine ancestry. The GPS informed him that Lebron’s house was only twenty minutes away, and Culkin arrived just before sunset.

He waited outside the log cabin where the basketball star liked to relax at in his off time. Lebron went outside for his morning jog, and was surprised by a swift jab to his neck that paralyzed him. He tried to speak, but nothing came out.

"Don’t try to speak," Culkin ordered. "If you know me, you know I have no patience for lies. Someone attempted to murder me last night. Murder by chocolate. Only you and one other person have I told about this, and the other person was Michael Jackson. I will release your vocal chords from paralysis if you promise to tell me what I need to know. Okay?”

Lebron nodded. His stomach was feeling very strange, like the time he ate six pounds of venison taco meat, but somehow worse. Culkin released him from his mute state. “Got drunk,” Lebron explained in short breaths. “Hollywood party. Ran into… Kirk Cameron-“

"You fool!" cried Culkin, eyes flashing with anger. "You told my nemesis what my greatest weakness is!"

Lebron’s stomach gurgled loudly, like Ke$ha’s music in reverse at 1/4 speed. It began to expand. Little did Lebron know but Cameron had planted a bomb inside him during that party. A chocolate bomb. A timer rang out and the bomb burst, flinging chocolate on everything in a half mile radius. Godiva dark chocolate.

—-

Kirk Cameron read the paper the next day and laughed. But his laughs were cut short by a gurgling in his stomach that sounded like Nickelback played forward at normal speed.

To his horror, he realized he had killed the one person who could be counted on to bring him fresh kittens every morning. Now the parasites were starving and angry. Cameron screamed as black worms exploded from his gut, flew into the air vents and out into the world.

The apocalypse had begun.

Trending Fiction February 8, 2012 3:14 PM EST
Roland Martin sweated as he prepared to take to the air. How could they have assigned him this particular thing to talk about? This particular thing being the explosive news that Steve Francis, the dashing basketball star, and Fabio Capello, noted Italian football (that’s real football, not American play-with-your-hands “foot”ball) manager had officially admitted their relationship. 
The pair had been spotted vacationing together on the Ivory Coast, feeding each other yassa and arguing over who loved the other more. “There are 20 people I love,” Francis was on record saying, “and 19 of them are clones I made of you.”
“I get that a lot,” replied Capello, who saw a time and place for modesty and determined this was not one of those times.
The signal was given to Martin to begin speaking. You can do this, he told himself. You’ve written it down. Just read what it says. “V-Valentine’s Day is coming up soon, and love is in the air. And some of that air is being breathed by the sports world as Steve Francis and Fabio Capello declared they will be getting married.” He swallowed hard. His urge to make a snarky remark would not stay down. The beast could not be kept in its cage. “You know, I’ve often wondered about gay sex.” He winced at the implications of this phrase. “Do gay guys use regular condoms? I heard gay guys like fashion a lot, they’re very image-oriented. I imagine they spend ridiculous amounts of money on Louis Vuitton condoms and Prada buttplugs.”
The director suddenly cut off his microphone, face turning red. Martin thought back on the past 30 seconds. In retrospect, it had not been the best thing to say. “Turn the mic back on. I’ll say I’m sorry.”
"Oh, you’re sorry?" the director spat.
Martin blushed. “I know I say that a lot,” he admitted, “but this time I really mean it.”
"Take to commercial," the director demanded. "Martin, you’re fired."
Martin, head hanging heavy, slunk out of the studio as a yogurt commercial played him out.
“Nourish what counts,” it commanded. “Your heart, Roland,” Martin could swear the voiceover woman on the commercial said. “Nourish your heart. It is tiny and dead. Go home and eat yogurt.”
All names are used satirically and should not be taken as a commentary on their true character.

Trending Fiction February 8, 2012 3:14 PM EST

Roland Martin sweated as he prepared to take to the air. How could they have assigned him this particular thing to talk about? This particular thing being the explosive news that Steve Francis, the dashing basketball star, and Fabio Capello, noted Italian football (that’s real football, not American play-with-your-hands “foot”ball) manager had officially admitted their relationship. 

The pair had been spotted vacationing together on the Ivory Coast, feeding each other yassa and arguing over who loved the other more. “There are 20 people I love,” Francis was on record saying, “and 19 of them are clones I made of you.”

I get that a lot,” replied Capello, who saw a time and place for modesty and determined this was not one of those times.

The signal was given to Martin to begin speaking. You can do this, he told himself. You’ve written it down. Just read what it says. “V-Valentine’s Day is coming up soon, and love is in the air. And some of that air is being breathed by the sports world as Steve Francis and Fabio Capello declared they will be getting married.” He swallowed hard. His urge to make a snarky remark would not stay down. The beast could not be kept in its cage. “You know, I’ve often wondered about gay sex.” He winced at the implications of this phrase. “Do gay guys use regular condoms? I heard gay guys like fashion a lot, they’re very image-oriented. I imagine they spend ridiculous amounts of money on Louis Vuitton condoms and Prada buttplugs.”

The director suddenly cut off his microphone, face turning red. Martin thought back on the past 30 seconds. In retrospect, it had not been the best thing to say. “Turn the mic back on. I’ll say I’m sorry.”

"Oh, you’re sorry?" the director spat.

Martin blushed. “I know I say that a lot,” he admitted, “but this time I really mean it.”

"Take to commercial," the director demanded. "Martin, you’re fired."

Martin, head hanging heavy, slunk out of the studio as a yogurt commercial played him out.

Nourish what counts,” it commanded. “Your heart, Roland,” Martin could swear the voiceover woman on the commercial said. “Nourish your heart. It is tiny and dead. Go home and eat yogurt.”

All names are used satirically and should not be taken as a commentary on their true character.