Super-Short Storytime: “Freako”

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Welcome to Super-Short Storytime, lovers of literature and fans of fiction!  I am Eduardo Soliz, the composer and narrator of the wonderfully weird words that you are about to hear:

Some people like to enjoy things that the majority of folks just don’t understand.  This selection from my free e-book ‘ten tiny tales’ is an oration about one unfortunately ostracized oddball. I call it: “Freako.”


Alan walked into the office with a spring in his step and a big smile on his face.  It was Friday, it was payday, and he would only be hanging around the office long enough to submit his time report for the week.  He couldn’t wait to start his long weekend.

As he briskly walked through the office, a woman recognized him, “Hey, Al, I thought you weren’t coming in today, did something change?”

Alan stopped to chat, beaming as he answered: “Nope, I’m just here to put in my timesheet and then the fun begins!”

“Oh, that’s right.”  The woman replied with a look of scorn on her face.  “You’re going to that thing to hang out with all those freakos, huh?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call them weirdos, Janet, I mean, lots of people are going to be there, and…” Alan started to explain before Janet raised her hand to interrupt him.

“That’s okay Al, I don’t need to hear about what you all do there, dressed up in those weird outfits and all.”  Janet quickly said.

“hhm…okay.  Sorry, Janet.”  Alan sheepishly said before continuing on his way.  Arriving at his cubicle, he sat down and turned on his computer.  While he waited for it to start, another coworker peeked his head in.

“What’s up, Al!” asked Jon as Alan turned to face him.

“Not much, Jon, I forgot to put in my time, and I want to get paid next week, so here I am.”  Alan answered.  “Hey, do you wanna join me at…”

“No way, man!”  Jon exclaimed, his face grimacing at the thought. “I wouldn’t be caught dead at that sausage-fest!  You have fun, though!” Jon said before ducking out of the cubicle.

Alan entered his time and then shut down the computer.  Dejected, he sighed, and began to walk away from his desk to start his weekend.  The smile on his face and the spring in his step were now gone.

“*sigh* Everybody makes fun of me just because I like something different.”  Alan thought to himself as he left the building and slowly walked to his car. “I wish my coworkers would stop giving me crap for being a football fan!!”

THE END.

It’s never easy being the odd man out, Listeners, so try to be nice.  If you’d like to hear or read more super-short stories scribed and said by yours truly, visit eduardosoliz.com This has been Super-Short Story time. Remember, listeners, we’re all weirdos to somebody!

Super Short Story Time: “Confession”

You are about to hear one side of a chat that may be taking place this afternoon or maybe tomorrow, assuming it hasn’t already.  It involves a speaker who wants to get something off of their chest and a listener who is there for their own reasons.  I call this curious conversation: ‘Confession.’


How are you?

I’m fine, just busy, you know?

You, me, and everybody else.  Remember when today wasn’t so busy and everybody stayed at home?

Yeah, me too.  You’re gonna think I’m crazy, but I think it got this way because of me.

How?   *sigh*  Well, about six years ago, I saw Santa Claus.

Yeah, I know, everybody thinks I’m crazy, but I saw him.  I didn’t even hear him or anything, I just wandered into the living room because I just had this feeling, you know?  And there he was, leaving gifts under the tree.

Apparently when you catch Santa in the act, he grants you a wish…anything you want, in exchange for  keeping his secret.

I wished that it could be Christmas all year…hey, I was eleven years old, it sounded good to me!

Santa tried to talk me out of it.  He said something about ‘the balance,’ but like I said, eleven years old.  Santa said okay, and disappeared.

Ever since then, the Christmas decorations go up a little earlier, people start putting their lights a little bit earlier, and you start hearing Christmas music a little bit earlier.  Like I said, I think it’s my fault.

Why am I telling you this?  Well, I guess that I hope that if I break my promise to keep his secret, he’ll break his, and things will go back to the way they used to be…I guess Santa never breaks his word, even when it’s a good idea.

Crazy, huh?  I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t believe me.  I don’t believe it myself, sometimes…but well, here we are…and here’s your receipt, ma’am.  You have a nice day.  *sigh*

Next customer!


Tis the season, so the saying goes, Dear Listeners, but which one?  It gets harder and harder to tell.  For more telling tales told by me, visit Eduardo Soliz dot com. This has been Super-Short Storytime and regardless of which one you’re celebrating: Happy holiday, listeners!

Super Short Storytime: “Where Credit is Due”

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Art by Chris Holm

As the writer in this story is about to learn, just because someone else has a different job than you do doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s easier. Featured in Fuzzy Words, this furry fracas is titled “Where Credit Is Due.”


The weasel’s tail swished back and forth rapidly as he paced back and forth in his living room with a cell phone held up to one ear.  “The script is done, Mark, but I can’t seem to get the songs down, and well, you can’t have a musical without music, right?”  He joked in a feeble attempt to appease the angry producer he was speaking with.

Mark was not pleased at William’s attempt at humor, and he let the nervous weasel know: “This is not the time for jokes, Will!  I am going to be out several thousand dollars for your advance, not to mention a lot more if you don’t give me a script to put on!  It’s been nine months!  What’s going on in that head of yours?  Are you homesick?  Girl trouble?  Guy trouble?

William hesitated before answering.  “Do you really want to know, Mark?”

Mark regained some of his composure and eagerly replied, “Well.  Yeah, Will.  This delay isn’t doing either one of us any good, so…so let’s talk it through and figure this thing out for both our sakes.  What’s eating you, man?”

William let out a heavy sigh before answering: “Well, it’s that, uh, I haven’t seen my Muse lately, and, well, I’m pretty useless without her.”

This time, a flabbergasted Mark hesitated briefly before speaking.  “Whoa.  I did not just hear that.  Did you say your Muse?” he asked with a nervous laugh.

“Yeah.  My Muse…”

“WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN SMOKING, WILL?  That has to be THE nuttiest thing I’ve heard in all my years working on Barkway!  Have you lost your mind?  You know what?  Don’t answer that, ‘cause I think I already know.  I need a finished script by the end of next week, or you are finished working in this town, do you understand me?  FINISHED.  Nobody will touch you with a twenty-foot leash after I’m done.  Get some help and get it done, Will!”

Even the beep that William heard as Mark ended the call sounded angry.  William collapsed onto his living room sofa, closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh.  My career is over, William thought as he dropped his cell phone onto the carpeted floor and contemplated the dreary future ahead of him.

After a few moments, he opened his eyes to find her there.  His Muse.  She was a short, sprightly thing: a mink almost completely covered in brown fur except for her muzzle, which was white.  She stood over him and looked down at William with a big goofy grin on her face.  William stared back for a few moments before the Muse finally broke the silence.

“Hi-eee!” she cheerfully said as she waved a hand in front of William’s face.  In response, he groaned and rubbed his eyes before sitting up on the sofa.  This was not the reaction that the Muse was expecting, and she began to pout: “Hey, I thought that you’d be happy to see me, Willie!”

“It’s William, and just where have you been?” an agitated William answered.  “I need to finish this play because I’ve got a producer breathing down my neck, and if I don’t get it done, he’s going to want his advance back.  You know, the one I already used to pay my rent.”

The shocked Muse took a step back.  She opened her mouth to speak, but William cut her off:

“What is it with you, anyway?  You’re never there when I need you.  You pop up at the worst possible times, or at the last minute, like now.  You can’t show up whenever I’m sitting at my laptop, you know, WHEN I’M TRYING TO WRITE.  No, that makes too much sense.  Instead, you pop up whenever you feel like it, like when I’m in the shower, or when I can’t sleep at two in the morning, or when I’m out on a date.  I then have to drop whatever it is I’m doing so I can jot something down because I have NO DOGGONE IDEA when you’re going to decide to grace me with your presence again!”

For a moment the Muse looked as if she were about to burst into tears.  Instead, she regained her composure, took a deep breath, stepped towards William, and unleashed a tirade of her own:

“Oh, so you think it’s so easy to do MY job?  You think you’re the ONLY so-called ‘creative’ person that needs a little extra help every now and then?  Well, let me tell you, Buddy, you AREN’T.  Every day, I have to help loads of people just like you finish their books or their poems or their scripts or their songs or their paintings or their sculptures.  Every. Single. Day.  It never ends: ‘I’m on a deadline!’ ‘My assignment is due next week!’ “My mom’s birthday is tomorrow!’  ‘Help me!’

So I show up, inspire somebody, and what I get for my trouble?  Nothing!  Nada, zero, zip, zilch.  When people say: ‘Oh, what a wonderful work of art,’ does the artist ever mention me?  No.  Do you ever hear somebody say, ‘Thank you, Muse,’ in an acceptance speech?  NO!  I-I don’t even get residuals!

A bewildered William interrupted her.  “But you’re a Muse…what would you even do with money?” He asked.

“SHUT UP!” she snapped back.  “It’s the principle!” she said, turning away from William.

William started to approach the Muse, but since her long fluffy tail was in the way, he walked around to face her.

“So you’re just looking for some recognition, huh?” William asked.

“Just a little would be nice.” The Muse said coyly.

William thought for a moment, and then his face lit up. He enthusiastically asked the Muse, “What if, I were to write a play with you in it?”

The Muse pointed a finger at herself before speaking. “With little old me?” she said with feigned modesty.

“Sure.  It will be…” William took a step back, assumed a dramatic pose and spoke as if he were narrating a movie trailer:  “The inspirational tale of a guy who’s down on his luck.  He can’t get a break, and just when he’s hit rock bottom and things can’t get any worse…” he stopped to point at the Muse with both hands, “His Muse appears out of the blue and saves his tail!”

“Yay!” chirped the Muse in a delighted tone, clapping her hands as she excitedly hopped up and down on both feet.  “I’d like that, Willie. I really would.  Have you thought of a name for it yet?”

William stifled a laugh before answering: “What else could I call it?  Un-a-mused!

With a smile and a wink, the Muse replied, “Yeah, I think I’ll let you take the credit for that one, Willie!”

THE END.


Inspiration is where you find it, Dear Listeners, that is, assuming it doesn’t find you first. For more super-short, super-silly stories, visit Eduardo Soliz dot com.  This has been Super-Short Storytime, and remember, listeners; always cite your sources!