A Werewolf In My Pocket -Short Story by Ryan A. Loera

I was sitting at the breakfast table enjoying a big bowl of cornflakes. I began to feel something wiggle around in my right shirt pocket. Then I felt a sharp pinch.
“OW! What is that?!” I asked.
“Oh, sorry. I just wanted to get your attention.”
I jumped up out of my chair and scanned the entire dining room. Where did that voice come from? Was it me?
“Uh, who’s there?”
“It’s me! I’m in your shirt pocket!”
I carefully took a peek inside my pocket and saw what looked like a miniature werewolf. He was no bigger than a quarter!
“How’d you get in there?” I demanded
“I’ve always been in here. You’ve just never noticed me until now.” It blinked its yellow eyes at me.
“Uh, okay. What do you want?”
“Oh, I was just wondering if I could have some of your cereal.”
“I guess. You want milk too?”
“No. All I need is one small piece.”
“Okay.” I picked up one cornflake and stuffed it into my pocket.
“Mmmm. Yum! Thanks! I appreciate it.”
The werewolf inhaled the cornflake. He made some weird noises while he ate.
“So, are there others like you?” I asked.
“You mean other miniature werewolves?”
It was now licking itself.
“Yes. Are there any other miniature werewolves?”
“Oh, my yes! We are in just about every available pocket.”
“And why am I seeing you now?”
“I don’t know. Only you know the answer to that question.” It proceeded to lick its tail.
“Uh, okay. So, what exactly do miniature werewolves do?”
“We can do lots of things but mostly we help keep away the lint goblins.”
“Lint Goblins?! There are actual Lint Goblins?!”
I decided to finish up my cornflakes.
“Yes. Of course. If the lint goblins had it their way they would just consume every piece of clothing in the world!”
“Really?!” I don’t know why I found it hard to believe in lint goblins. After all, I was talking to a pocket-sized werewolf.
“Okay. So, suppose I were to meet one of these lint goblins. Would it harm me?”
“No. Of course not! Lint goblins are deathly afraid of miniature werewolves and even MORE afraid of humans!”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.” I glanced at my wristwatch. I wondered how long I would have to talk to the werewolf.
“Well, I’d really like to continue chatting with you but I kind of have to be somewhere important.”
I hoped it didn’t take offense.
“Oh, okay. I understand. I will always be right here in your pocket if you ever feel the need to talk.” It began to curl up for a nap.
As I made my way towards the door I quickly realized I was forgetting my jacket. I pulled it off the coat rack and put it on. I zipped it up to my neck and felt a weird scratch.
“OW!”
I noticed a tiny green dot move about the zipper.
“Oh, sorry! I’m a jacket pixie. Can I have some cereal too?”

All words written by Ryan A. Loera
Copyright 2015

Santos

I once knew a guy who did not know me. He was a cool guy. His name was Santos. He was big and tall and round. So very rotund, fat or uh big boned. Ha, ha. Big boned. Santos had some sort of memory problem. He couldn’t retain any information other than his own name. But he sometimes struggled with that as well. Me and Santos were in the same 7th grade P.E. class. I absolutely hated that class and so did Santos. The coach was so annoying! But I guess most coaches are. Coach Nunez was his name. He was part Hispanic and part priest. Well, that’s what the other students used to say about him. Coach Nunez was known for quoting a lot of different religious figures. Somehow, he always managed to have ten new quotes every day. Most of the students laughed off his quoting but not me. Every once in a while I would write down one quote that seemed to grab my attention. “An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.” Coach Nunez said one day after handing out the big red rubber balls for a game of dodge ball. He was quoting Gandhi. I wrote that one down and memorized it. “Santos, look out!” I shouted. Santos turned his head to the left just in time to avoid being hit by a ball. It was only an inch away from hitting his nose! “I’m okay now!” Santos exclaimed. He picked up a ball then flung it hard at the shortest kid in school. His name was Kenneth and he resembled a frail little mouse. “Ow! Coach Nunez, Santos hit me way too hard!” Kenneth complained while rubbing his right shoulder. “Santos! Don’t throw so hard! You hurt Kenneth!” Coach Nunez scolded Santos. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry, Kenny.” Santos apologized then hung his head low. “That’s all right, Santos. I appreciate the apology.” Kenneth smiled then sat down on a bench with the other injured kids. “Ha, ha! Kenny’s gonna’ cry!” One of the other students, Ignacio, taunted Kenneth. Ignacio was a born taunter. He wasn’t a bully. He was a taunter. What’s the difference? A bully will usually taunt and physically harm his victim. A taunter will wait for just the right moment to verbally assault his victim. A taunter abhors physical violence but has no problem with using words as weapons. Ignacio even had the look of a taunter. He was of average height but with a very Mediterranean complexion. I think he was part Greek and part Brazilian. His hair was a dark color, not quite black but not quite brown. He always had it slicked back with the aid of some special kind of hair grease that his uncle shipped to him from Brazil. Ignacio was also the only 7th grader with a mustache. It was a thin wispy mustache but still a real mustache. “Kenny’s a cry baby! Cry baby!” Ignacio laughed and pointed at Kenneth. “Stop it, Iggy! Leave Kenny alone!” Janet defended Kenneth. Janet was quite possibly the prettiest, nicest, and coolest girl in the entire school. I had a bit of a crush on her. Well, just about every 7th grade boy did. Even a few 8th grade boys. Janet had curly red hair, deep blue eyes, glowing fair skin and an awesome smile. She also had this way of looking at someone, anyone, and instantly connecting with that person’s true self. “You’re such a bully, Iggy! Stop picking on Kenny!” Janet scrunched up her face and gave Ignacio the stink eye. “Hey now! I’m no bully! I’m just a taunter.” Ignacio caught a ball and held onto it for a minute before hurling it at some kid’s stomach. “Oh whatever! You’re a bully and you know you’re a bully!” Janet picked up a ball and threw it at Ignacio’s face. “Hey! You can’t do that! You’re not in the game anymore, Janet!” Ignacio was about to retaliate in kind when he was struck so hard in the chest that he immediately fell backwards onto the shiny gymnasium floor. I turned around and saw Santos standing with a big smile on his face. “Santos! Look what you’ve done!” Coach Nunez ran over to Ignacio and checked his vital signs. “A ball for a ball makes you fall!” Santos exclaimed. Every single student laughed. I wrote down that quote.

All words written by Ryan A. Loera Copyright 2015

She Picks -A Short Story by Ryan A. Loera

She picks her nose. She picks it often. Her favorite day to pick it is Sunday. The Lord’s Day. While most people change into their Sunday best to go to mass… she changes into her Sunday best to pick her nose. She starts off slow and gentle. Sometimes she lights a vanilla scented candle beforehand. She says it adds something extra to the moment. Do not be confused by my description. I assure you I am not using any kind of metaphor when I say she picks her nose. She thoroughly enjoys it. Sex has never been much of a concern to her. Nose picking gives her far more satisfaction. When she picks her nose she gets lost. Lost in time, lost in space, lost in the simple act of picking her nose. She says her soul merges with the entire Universe when she picks. She becomes one with everything. To her it is a divine blessing. She is not a whore or heretic! She is a nose-picker. And she is damn proud of it! All words written by Ryan A. Loera Copyright 2015

In the Beginning -A Short Story by Ryan A. Loera

In the beginning, there were no toilets. People were forced to defecate on sidewalks and near government buildings. Sure, nobody enjoyed taking big long brown dumps in front of each other but there was no alternative. Until a man named Harry Clump had an epiphany one humid afternoon. He turned to his wife Mary and said: "Hey! What if someone created a place where people could defecate in private!" "Whadda' ya' mean? You can't just devote one place entirely to the act of defecation! Besides, people are perfectly happy with defecating anywhere they want to." Mary had just finished taking a pretty big dump on a bush in the local park. "I'm not so sure about that, Mary. I mean... I believe people are yearning to know what it feels like to be able to defecate behind closed doors." Harry took out a notebook and a pencil and began sketching something. "Huh? You mean like pooping in one's own bedroom? Some people already do that, Harry." Mary watched Harry draw something circular. A minute later, Harry finished his sketch and held it up over his head. "Behold! The Defecation Booth!" He exclaimed. "The what?" Asked Mary. "The Defecation Booth! You see, people will enter this cubicle and sit down on a chair-like thing that has a hole in the middle. Then they can defecate all they want in complete privacy! It's genius I tell ya'! We're gonna' be rich, Mary!" Harry jumped up and down with excitement. "Oh I dunno', Harry. It sounds pretty dumb to me." Replied Mary. Two weeks later, Harry died from explosive diarrhea. Mary eventually sold his idea to a scientist/engineer for $100 and a coupon for one free taco at Pancho's Tacos. The scientist/engineer perfected the design ten years later and named it after himself. His name is Dr. John Stall Toilet. Today, he is the fourth richest man in the world. Right behind the guy that invented disposable diapers. So, there you have it. The origins, more or less, of the toilet. The rest, as you know, is... defecation.

All words written by Ryan A. Loera Copyright 2015

My Sandwich

He ate my sandwich! Bob ate my wonderful sandwich! My turkey, cheese, bacon, tomato, lettuce on rye sandwich! How could Bob do such a thing? Does he not know how many hours I spent making my sandwich? Well, maybe not hours but minutes. Several glorious minutes! I even drove all the way across town to get the good turkey from the good deli. Doesn’t Bob know this? How could you, Bob! How could you eat my sandwich! Why did you eat it? Do you get some kind of sick satisfaction from eating other peoples’ sandwiches? Huh!! Do you? I recall a time when you wanted to make a sandwich of your own but did not have any bread. You asked to borrow a few slices of bread and I was agreeable. In addition, I also gave you $5 so that you may purchase a loaf of your choosing. That was not too long ago. Did you purchase your own loaf? No! You spent that $5 on beer. And when you got back home you didn’t even offer me a beer! Oh how I loathe you, Bob! It is no wonder you are a solitary man. But I digress. Why the hell did you eat my sandwich? Was there something about it that called out to you? Hmmm? Did the sandwich itself speak to you? Did it speak to you in French or Spanish? If you are having conversations with talking sandwiches regularly then perhaps you should see a psychiatrist. But even that is no excuse for eating my lovely sandwich! Why! Why did you eat it? I’ve been nothing but kind to you these past few months. I have no qualms with our living arrangement. And I only slept with your wife once! Only once! So… Why did you eat my sandwich? WHY!! All words written by Ryan A. Loera Copyright 2015

Snow Cone

In the middle of January is when I lost my first original love. She had purchased a snow cone from a street vendor who only charged her a smile. Yes, a smile.

As she licked it she was brought back to a time when she was a child of only five. Her mother did not pay her much attention in those days. But usually because she was too inebriated to stand on her own two feet.

My original love she always thought of this when enjoying a snow cone or any other childhood treat. Sometimes she'd cry out loud if only to hear herself lose control.

Then one morning she finally lost complete and utter control. She mouthed off to the snow cone vendor and threw crushed ice at his face.

Some passerby interpreted this as a crime and phoned the local police. When the police arrived at the scene they saw her foaming at the mouth and felt it necessary to taze her.

Unfortunately, the voltage was just a bit too much for her fragile body to handle. Her brain literally imploded from the high voltage. She was buried next to her Mother.

All this happened in the middle of January. I lost my original love. I lost her when she lost herself.

I am reminded of this whenever I see a woman enjoying a snow cone.

Character

She faded rather quickly into the foreground but I still maintained my pace. As she turned the corner I noticed her golden locks float upwards in the breeze. That sun yellow dress of hers was like a cautionary sign to me. But I've never been one to obey any sign. Then she rapidly ducked into a shoe store; I waited a minute and casually walked in.

A shelf filled with red pumps startled me at first. I spun around and knocked over a busty mannequin. Most of the patrons didn't seem to notice. I picked up the mannequin by the bust and steadied it back in place. It was at that exact moment that she approached me.

"Haven't I seen you before?" She asked then twiddled one of her shiny locks with her index finger. "Perhaps." I answered. "Oh! You're on that really funny t.v. show! Right?" Her entire face lit up. "Uh... yes. Yes I am." I thought about correcting her but then I just became lost in her ocean blue eyes.

"I really love your show and the character you play! I'm probably one of your biggest fans!" She grasped my right hand then pulled me in and gave me a really intense hug. I didn't dare push her away. I don't know what fragrance she wore but it was quite intoxicating. It reminded me of being in a field of daffodils during a cool midsummer's eve.

It was all I could do to stop myself from breathing in every ounce of her essence. "I hope you don't think I'm too forward by asking you this but would you like to come to this party me and my friends are throwing tonight? It's just like a birthday party." She loosened her hold then stepped back a little in order to maintain eye contact with me. "Whose birthday is it?" I asked. "Oh, one of my friends. She's also a big fan of yours. Her name's Christine. And uh oh my name's Cindy! Sorry I forgot to mention my name right away." She giggled a bit.

"Nice to meet you, Cindy. And that party sounds like fun. I'd love to stop by." I spoke in a manner a trained actor might speak to a fan. "Oh, wow! Really? You'll come? That's great! Here's the address and my phone number." She frantically grabbed a pen from her purse and began writing on a store flyer. "Here you go." She handed me the flyer and kissed me briskly on the lips.

I watched her walk slowly out of the store and turn her head back. "I'll be waiting for you." She said in a sultry voice then slipped away. "All right. Now I just have to figure out which show she thinks I'm on." I stuffed the flyer in my pocket and ran home.