Short stories or novels.

I mean... If I'm gonna be here often, write long and also often, may as well create it. Write away. Write clean, write dirty, write in English, French, whatever language, form or subjects you may feel like. But write and then read.
Have fun!

Wondering what to do on a rainy monday morning? Dont quite feel like hitting the gym, nor want to slouch in front of a movie?
Find a broken bird, as you drink your coffee on the balcony.

Chuck and I (Yes, I named him Chuck, Charles for the non familiar. ) met this morning, as I was contemplating my extra day off. He came out of a mudd hole, that probably looked like a WWI trench to him. Hopping on a limb as best he could. I didnt see what happened to him. But having a colourfull imagination, I like to think he got ghosted by his date, felt to the ground, from sadness and got jumped by a gang of cats, for his wallet.
Chuck, being from baltimore gave a litteral flying fuck, and knocked three of them out, before the last pussy, sucker clawed him from behind...

I came out, approached him slowly, and got him to wobble quite easely into my hand. Brought him inside, wiped the wetness away, even installed a little heater to give him some warmth.
Having about as much expertise in broken bird, as I have with my love life, I did what any modern men would.
... Asked the internet.
Do not feed!
Do not give drink!
Do not over manipulate...
So I remove the gin an tonic & the sushis and our preliminaries I had prepared him. After a few clichés to prove I wasn't psychotic; placed him in a box with a towel.
Then proceeded to call every darn closed vets in a 50km radius, knowing full well, it was gonna be a demanding challenge. Vets that we're open, threw the ball at one another, since Chuck's an Oriole, he'd appreciate that baseball pun... One vet rerouted me to a spca, to witch they we're closed...
On their web page however, they had the Sureté du Québec's number.
I giggled, as the phone wranged.
-Help, my bird's broken...
Cops on the line, hangs up!

Not at all what happened, but the situation was burlesque. I could almost see the confused face of the agent answering the phone. ...Heuuu.》 She said, 《we don't really do this, unless it's big.》 Bitch was skinny shamming Chuck! How dared she? She reffered me to another dispatch, after I joked with her that the SQ we're also closed today. I laughed, she didnt. The other dispatch was also stunned by my awckward demand. Tried to refer me to a vet, who was you got it, also closed. She kinda hurried up and pretty much hunged up on me. I called the emergency Vet in Brossard, resolved to travel in order to save Chuck's life. They told me, they only did cats and dogs. I thought about driving to the police station and ding-dong ditiching my new buddy. Then... the phone wranged, it was one of the police dipatch I had talked to, calling back to give me the number of a refuge an hour away. Gotta give it to her, to protect and serve indeed. Even for Chuck...
I called them, they asked if I could bring the now volatile Chuck in his box? Buddy was getting rowdy in there. You can take the oriole away from Baltimore, you can't take Baltimore away from the oriole right?

Meh! I thought. Got nothing better to do.
Road trip!
Taking a bird on a road trip is such an irony. It's like giving a pair of crocks to Usain Bolt...
Took Chuck, in his box, hopped in the car, and off we went. Imagine if I had found the love of my life while on this side quest. Chuck would have been the best, *(and litteral) wingman ever!
Played him some Tool and Dream Theatre on the way up, thinking my song choices might be questionable, but still beats police sirens driving him to the emergency. An hour later, parked the automobile up a gravel road, and went to check on my new buddy.
-How we doing Chuck?
(Yes I did have multiple conversations with a bird. I'm alone but rarely lonely...)
...Chuck?
Opened the box. Bugger!
Chuck had passed. Right then and there as I was parked in this bird sanctuary. Felt a lil dumb, lil awckward also, when I approach the lady with my now coffin box.
-What seems to be the issue?
-Well... hummm think he's dead now.
I noticed she held her laugh, as I must have looked dumbfounded in front of her.
Signed the papers, gave her Chuck's carcass, we removed our baseball caps, held a minute of silence, and off I went.
Not gonna lie, had to mentally slapped myself for being a tiny lil bit emmotional; about this absurd side quest, I took on this morning. On the way back home, I started rumminating about this story.
30minutes to write, 2 hours to try and correct myself... phone died as well.
Why Jesus, why?


Chuck, Charles.
I don't know if it was my driving, the playlist or if the cats really messed you up. I personally, blame the police, for refusing what was clearly, an emergency situation...
You gorgeous mother fucker, gave me an adventure on a going nowhere day. The perfect irony, and you croaked, listening to the dance of eternity...Just goes to show. Everything can be, if you look at birds, instead of flipping it at the world. Although I always been more of a White sox fan, You we're THE oriole! Wish you had lived budd. Rest in piece.

An open letter to Ricardo.

Today, after the gym, I was debating going to the breakfast place, right next to it. Or save a little money and make my own. I pushed myself in training;
to the point where I stood up from the machine and wobbled because I could not feel my legs. It made me laugh, as it's a sign that I'm commited and also might, probably, most likely... am over doing it a little.

Only things on my mind was. Freshly mixed berries smoothie and English cream. English cream with what?
Doesn't matter! English cream!
I settled on french toast.
*(Rotis for you maniacs out there...)

I bought the ingredients and went home.
It was almost 1pm and I started mixing the berries in that venerable samurai that everyone else vulgarely calls, Ninja.
That thing mixes fruits like D.j. Khaled mixes music... Another one!

Opened Google to get an easy receipe for what I beleive, is the best dish the honorable island of England has ever created. Who else but my good buddy, o'l pal Ricardo, who not only mastered the art of cooking, but also the Google algorithms.
It also said: -Easy receipe...

Oh no! Broken dreams realisation. Darn thing takes three hours to cool and settle.
Oh well, I'll prepare tomorrow's breakfast then.

If you made it this far. I'd like to point out that I'm a fan of cooking, but strongly need to practice it more. I'm not bad at it, I'm just rarely doing anything fancy. In other words. Ricardo buddy. What the fuck do you mean by: feu moyen doux?
I know you cook on fancy gas stove with pricy pans, but most of us don't!
I have an old thing that is super reliable and have a "deep bond" with. It also has a knob that goes from 1 to Oh! W'ere making chard rubbery something huh?
It's super easy, pick a bloody number mate!
*( English cream, I rant in British now...)

...Any who. I easely segregated my egg yokes from their whites. I surprised myself at how easy and also runny the exercise was. Stirred the ingredients.
Then proceeded to argue with myself over the medium/low heat.

Is it 7 wich is in the margin of medium to wich you substrac one and end up at 6? Or is it 4 wich is also in the medium range where you subtract one, because even though low heat and longer stirr is better. I have the tendency to turn into a less shinny version of Einstein and think: 1 hour at 350 is the equivalent of 20 minutes at a 1050 right?
WRONG!
*(Hi. Verbal's brain here. He's not Einstein and definitly isn't overthinking this right now...)

So I settle for 5, wich is a great number.
And proceed to strirr periodically while I prepped my now omelette ingredient, since I discover I needed a calendar to eat English cream.

And this was my second mistake.
When it says in the receipe: Stirr continuously, it doesn't mean, periodically, while you cut mushrooms and peppers...

The whole thing boiled, split and turned into the consistency of what can only be described as: Cold vanilla oatmeal...

Whoops!
It tastes great, but looks like shit.
I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed...
Let's do better!

I spent the rest of the day trying to figure where I went wrong.

Woke up this morning determined to make another batch and focus on stirring it CON-Ti-NU-OUS-LY!

Here I go, dish cloath over my shoulder stirring like my life depended on it at 5am. The determination of someone who's either gonna have a delicious esthetically sugary cream or English Vanilla caramel.
The indications said roughly 20 minutes.
Started the stove at 4 this time and lowered it at 3, thinking: -Don't care, I'll stirr longer.

Thing splitted about 10 minutes in and I just kept going, hoping once all the water evaporated, It would thicken into my beloved cream.

...WRONG

Ricardo buddy, why have you forsaken me? Do you want to come over this morning? We're having "Rotis Françaises" with a side of vanilla scrambled, yellow shit...
I love your receipe, and dining at your establishement was a fine experience, but besides your pear gin and tonic, you and I are threw!

So before I came here to rant about my insuccess in making your dish. I opened what us deficit disorder li'l soldiers do.
*(Oh look a squirrel...)
I researched: Making English cream. On YouTube. A 30 seconds short videos said what your receipe fails to mention you ass-hole.
DO NOT LET IT BOIL!!!
Your indications says: -Continuously stirr until the cream drapes the wooden spoon.

First of what the fuck does drape the spoon means? Quick follow up.
Where do I find a culinary blanket? Is it ok if it smells of snuggle or are you more of a bounce kinda guy? And last but not least. I'm an 80's child. Wooden spoon to me, is sign of PTSD and: I'm about to get my ass smack with said wooden instrument rather then, let's cook something delicious... Betty Crocker plastic, rubber, silicone, whatever.
Not wood!

I am now gonna go make a third batch, not let it boil, since my new favorite site for receipe , is a teenager making elaborate stuff from a college dorm. No fancy equipment, lots of visual, and no dumb words like: Drapé and moyen doux.

Sorry buddy. It's not me, it's you!

Aight fine it might be me...

The end.