Tag Archives: comedy

Friday Fictioneers – From the Mountaintops

© Dee Lovering
© Dee Lovering

I’ll tell you an inconvenient truth- the sun has always been expanding.  It’s a star; it grows until it explodes.  It was just sitting up there the whole time, like a big stupid time bomb.  Tick tock! Tick tock!

No one knew what it meant at first, but they quickly found out with the rising water and scorching heat.  Some herded to the mountaintops to avoid drowning, but they’ll melt sooner.  Others went ahead and took the dive.  But most people herded like sheep to the middle ground, quickly running out of food and fresh water.

Go ahead and start eating each other, stupid idiots! Ya’ll will be soup soon anyway!

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“Brochacho’s Burgers” – Script Excerpt

The following is a reformatted excerpt from a script I’ve been working on-


The smell of grease-soaked meat reeks throughout the joint.  Standing in line at Brochacho’s Burgers are two young, adult men.  Jim, a suave, although maybe sometimes boisterous, young man stared at the menu on the wall.  Next to him, staring at the same menu but not actually reading it, was Lliam; a more modest and shy personality that is evident in his attire.

“What’re you getting?” Jim asked while still perusing the menu.

“Probably just a burger,” Lliam answered.  He elongated his enunciation of ‘probably’ to give off the impression that he was, actually, considering other options.

“No fries?” Jim inquired, sounding mildly shocked with a hint of disappointment.

“Nah, not a fan,” Lliam said, hoping to conclude his preference investigation.

Jim subtly shakes his head in disapproval.  After another few seconds of examining the menu, Jim leans onto the raised counter.  The cashier pauses after Jim puts his elbow on the countertop, showing slight annoyance.  After the brief pause, the cashier asks his routine, “What can I get for you today?”

“I’ll take one of your double Brochacho burgers with everything, medium fry, and a drink,” Jim recounts.

“Double burger, medium fry and drink.  Anything else?” repeats the cashier.

“Nope, that’s all.  I’m paying for this guy, too,” Jim says while gesturing to Lliam.  Jim backs away from the counter while Lliam, who is caught off guard by the kind gesture, walks up to the counter.  The cashier takes a half-step closer to the counter now that Jim’s elbow is no longer resting there.  His annoyance, however, has not receded.

“I’ll just take a burger, plain,” Lliam says.

“Do you want cheese on that?  Or some fries?” the cashier asks.

“No, just a plain burger and a medium drink.  Thanks,” Lliam reassures.  He backs away from the counter as Jim walks back up to pay for their order.  Afterwards, they find a table in the middle of the dining room to wait on their food.  They sit across from each other, remaining quiet for a moment until Jim makes conversation.

“This place seems a little weird, don’t you think?” Jim asks, trying to break the silence.

“How so?” Lliam asks back, not picking up on the conversation-started Jim was trying to evoke.

“I don’t know; the guy up front, the location of this place… just, everything.  You don’t see it?” Jim asks again.

“Eh, it’s a little different I guess.  But a burger’s a burger,” Lliam answers, ending his sentence with what has never been, and will never be, a cliché.

“Speaking of weird….” Jim pauses as their food is delivered to their table.  They both thank the deliverer and claim their food.  As they begin to eat, Jim continues.  “No cheese, no fries, nothing?  Not much of a meal, is it?”

“I’m just a little plain I guess,” Lliam responds while taking a bite out of his burger.  “I don’t like all the toppings they put on burgers.  And fries just taste greasy to me.  I’d still call it a meal though, it fills me up.”

Lliam takes another bite of his sandwich while Jim continues to chew on his.  Lliam stares blankly down at the table, trying again to avoid another exploration of his likes and dislikes.  Jim looks slightly off to the right of Lliam, deep in thought.  They continue eating quietly until Jim chimes in.

“How many food groups on the Food Pyramid does an item need to have in order to be considered a meal instead of a snack?”

Lliam chews for a moment before answering back, “I think it depends more on the amount you eat.”

“Sometimes I eat more ice cream for a snack than I eat food for supper,” Jim replies, still chewing.  “I can eat more chips, or more wings, during a football game than I do at supper, but people still call that a snack.  It’s the lack of variety.”

Lliam, mouth full of hamburger, shrugs.  He does this in order not to elicit a response, or perhaps because he has suddenly become aware of his manners; don’t speak with food in your mouth.  Jim glares back at Lliam, waiting for a retort, but it doesn’t come.

“The bun,” Jim goes on, while lifting the bun off the top of his burger, “that’s in the grains category.  Then you have the hamburger meat,” he says, but quickly realizes he cannot easily pick it off his burger for exhibition.  Instead, he sticks out his tongue with chewed meat on it.  He puts his tongue and food back into his mouth to swallow before continuing.  “The cheese is dairy,” Jim holds up every piece to eye-level when saying it.  “The lettuce and tomato are vegetables.  The fries are-“

Lliam cuts him off, “Tomatoes are a fruit.”

“Even better!” Jim exclaims before going on.  “The lettuce is my vegetable, the tomato is my fruit!  My burger has five of the six food groups!  And the fries, with all this salt….” Jim pauses to grab a fry, dramatically rubs it around in pile of salt on his tray, and then uses it to scoop as much ketchup onto the fry as possible.  He then leans forward over the table, closer to Lliam (who has a very confused expression on his face), before sticking the fry into his mouth.  “That’s the top of the pyramid.”

Spade the Cat

Rain smacks against the glass.  Inside, a cat sits on the windowsill, watching the downpour.  The cat whisks her tail back and forth in anticipation; afraid of the wet outdoors but curious nonetheless.  Her owner sits in her computer chair, working on homework.

“What are you thinking, Spade?” asks the owner.

“Meow,” answers the cat, in a descriptive enough manner to insinuate Spade the Cat’s overwhelming interest in the falling drink hitting an invisible wall in front of her.  How strange, suggests Spade, that something I drink so much creates so much anxiety inside of me.

“Yea, that’s what I’m thinking,” replies the owner, her eyes slightly bloodshot from staring at a computer screen for too long.  “I guess you’re right, it’s time for a break.”

“Meow,” agrees the cat, strongly.


A man says, “I love you,” gives her a kiss, “Good night,” and walks outside.  The owner closes the door and turns around toward Spade with a smile on her face.

“Do you like him, Spade?” inquires the owner.

“Meow,” responds the cat, but in a certain tone to suggest that she was still on the fence if the man was suitable for a durable romantic relationship.  Perhaps, advised Spade, we should be patient and allow time to tell us the answers.


The owner lies in bed, covers over her bulging stomach, propped up on a pillow, watching TV.  Spade the Cat walks over and curls up against her stomach.

“Prrr,” says the cat, indicating a resilient, time-tested, emotional bond.

“Are you excited to have a baby to play with?” asks the owner.

“Meow,” retorts the cat in a hasty manner that could only mean, No, I was very happy when it was just the two of us against the world.  We had a feisty demeanor that only we could love, and everything was tailored our fit.  We do not need a man and a baby.

“I’m excited, too,” she says.


A medium-sized cage is placed on the kitchen floor.  The man is bent over it, holding the cage door open.  The owner is carrying the cat to the kitchen.

“Come on, Spade, we need to make you feel better,” the owner says.

“Meow,” growls the cat, her eyes drooping and legs weak.  But, thought Spade, I don’t think I’m that sick, I just need some rest.  I only need some water, and if you all would be so kind, the mushy food that I like.

“I know,” replies the owner, “that’s why we’re taking you to the vet.”


Spade the Cat is lying on a cold, silver platform.  Several people, including the owner, the vet, the man, and the baby, stand over her and talk.  Spade does her best to keep her bare paws off the platform.  The owner has tears in her eyes.

“Meow,” says the cat, but in a soft tone to infer that she cares, and she wants his owner to feel happy again.  There, there, implies Spade, you need to cheer right up.  Let’s go back home and I’ll purr on your belly.

The owner looks at Spade, “I know, Spade, you must be scared.  I’m sorry.”

“Meow,” answers the cat, but in a reassuring quality that could only mean: Hey, I don’t know why I should be afraid.  Why?  Is everything OK with you?  I just want to cheer you up.  Let’s go home, OK?

The owner walks over and pets Spade, puts her face next to hers, and says, “We have to put you down.  You’re really sick, and I’m going to take the pain away, OK?”  Tears glide down her cheeks.  “I love you, I’ll always remember you, Spade.”

“Meow,” cries the cat, but in a desperate manner that could be translated into – What?  Me?  But I’m just tired!  I only need a few more naps!  Just take me home, it’s cold here.

The owner turns her back to Spade as the vet walks toward her with a needle.

“Meow,” cries the cat one more time, in a distressed nature.  Please, howls Spade, just take me home.  I just need food, water, petting, and sunshine!  I’m just a little worn down!  You’re child wears me out!  Please!

The owner is crying.  She looks to her husband and says, “She was saying goodbye.  Such a brave cat.”