Recently in Chris Leavens Category

State Senator Gus Vibreaux hated hot. Dry hot, humid hot, spicy hot. He hated all hot. When the thirty-ton Addison cooling unit finally kicked the bucket after the power surge on that steamy July 17th in the office on the corner of Tennessee and Dutton, the security guards, aides, and intern threw open the windows and the hot air came in and sidled up next to Vibreaux like a fat man sitting next to him in the coach section of an airplane. Mr. Senator usually flew first class, so this upset him.

Vibreaux said this: "Milliken." Milliken was the intern. "Milliken, for God's sake, find a fan."

Realize the office on Tennessee and Dutton was old, the kind of building with ornate wood trim bordering doors, floors, and windows. But that very woodwork was painted over with cheap, white latex paint, slopped on by the historically-insensitive owners. It was a whitewashed version of the past with unsubstantial present-day conveniences bolted to its sides. Nestled amongst these modern amenities were the galvanized steel plumbing (only slightly more clogged and narrow than the kind Senator's arteries), the phone-activated entry system, and, of course that 30-ton Addison. Dig as Milliken may, no fans were included in the list of the aforementioned modernity.

Another item of realization for you, dear reader: "modern" and "modernity" are being employed liberally and with with much exaggeration and sarcasm. Housing these words in quotes a few lines earlier may have been considered "helpful," but do you notice how annoying this kind of "help" can be? Inferring sarcasm in multiple regions of this text is encouraged.

Vote 0 Votes

Reading parts 1, 2, and 3 might be mildy beneficial.

Adam sat in a sterile, vacant limbo, the walls unsettlingly white and empty. The loneliness and despair of the place peeled sound from the air, leaving only the ringing in his ears, a field of crickets chirping accusations, reminding him of Tommy Keeler's bloody fate. Adam saw his tiny fists charging into the air, cutting molecules to bits as they flew toward their target and freezing for a moment, contemplating the late Keeler's face, searching for a reason to blast it, explode it into a juicy red mushroom cloud. What if he could have talked his hands out of it, stepped away from the fight, walked away peacefully with the talking dog, the world a motionless picture behind them? He and his new friend would escape, exploring, looking for a new photo to step into, a new world without bullies or anger or deadly fists. Fate dangled magical possibilities in front of him, but only offered him the cold reality of punishment.

Vote 0 Votes

Reading Part 1 and Part 2 might be useful.

The filthy gang of boys led by Tommy Keeler rumbled down the hillside toward Adam, their yelping mouths smiling wickedly underneath dull, close-set eyes. Adam watched them descend, a sweaty, heedless avalanche of hooligans, and the shock of impending humiliation and pain turned the frail boy to stone. He stood still, a statue waiting to be desecrated, the talking dog cowering behind him.

The slope gave way to flat land and Tommy Keeler slowed to cocky walk, the other boys following him in a 'V' formation, lending him their mobbish energy. "This is a dumb place, to hide, A-dumb." Keeler's cohorts praised his vapid wit with their chuckles. "That's yer new name, A-dumb. Like 'd-u-m' dumb."

The talking dog couldn't resist. "Learn to spell, moron," he barked from behind Adam's legs. The talking dog regretted it immediately.

Vote 0 Votes

It's not necessary, but it might help if you read part 1.

Sick with children, the colossal red-brick building sneezed and the entire fourth grade shot out of its doors. 122 ten-year olds exploded onto the green hillside, kicking dust and mud onto the beastly edifice. They were like a happy load of buckshot, a swarm of jubilant disorder, all of them running, tripping, jumping for freedom. All of them except for one; a really little, skinny one called Adam. This one shuffled from the building, his frail, brainy body moving in slow motion while the other children blurred past. He stared at the grass as shoe-drawn currents ripped through it, fatefully tearing and snapping select blades, leaving others to stand the test of life for at least a few more moments.

Adam shrank into the grass, got small like the ants and climbed aboard a prime leaf, the perfect launchpad. He waited and watched, ready to surf the next hapless wave that followed in the wake of his new classmates.

"Heads up! Heads up! Heads up, uh, Adam? Heads up ADAM?" He looked up, but it was too late. Whack! A kickball to the side of the face and Adam dropped to the ground. Tommy Keeler, a miniature lumberjack with hair the color of vacuum-cleaner dust, ran over and grabbed the ball. Adam held his burning right cheek and hid his pain, keeping Tommy Keeler in his periphery, afraid to look him in the eye. Third-grade legend taught Adam that to look Tommy Keeler in the eyes in a time of weakness meant certain death, or at least a wedgie.

Vote 0 Votes

Genius. Genius occupied every sentence, no every word in those letters, but now those letters were gone, torn to shreds, sitting in front of Adam in a box. Adam cried for days after he opened that package. Michelle wanted no more of Adam’s company nor did she want the company of his letters, the letters he wrote, the letters soaked in genius. She wanted to spend more time with Pierre, her new man, that guy who took her salsa dancing. Adam would have gone salsa dancing. Why didn’t she ask him? Why did she push him away as if every physical advance was an illegal assault? After all, he could reconsider; the "give-me-some-room-let’s-be-friends-for-a-while" thing might work.

Adam asked his talking dog to explain it, but the talking dog could not explain it. The talking dog just paced around the couch waxing poetic about the pants he had just bought.

Vote 0 Votes
This is truly the final story I wrote for Pork Pony, but it was published under an alias. Mother Nature oversees a staff of obese people who do cannonballs to create catastrophic waves in the ocean. (CL)
Vote 0 Votes
I felt like I had hit full-stride when I wrote this story about a guy who wanted to by a mall with a bag full of gold. It encapsulates the elements I always strived for: absurdity, humor, and self-reference. This one makes me feel pretty good about what I accomplished in the Pork Pony days.(CL)
Vote 0 Votes
Yes, another story by me, but originally credited to Eli Lindy. I didn't remember this as one of my favorites, but upon rereading it, it's not so bad. It's a bit improbable, an element that seems to be lacking in a lot of fiction (mostly because so many people lack imagination). (CL)
Vote 0 Votes
I've always loved garbled translations and self-help or advice given in English by people who just recently learned English. This piece is my attempt at a pamphlet written by a "wise man" who's new to either America or English. (CL)
Vote 0 Votes
This is yet another of my Eli Lindy stories. My original idea was to use Eli Lindy as a psuedonym not only to expand the number of Pork Pony writers, but to write in a voice that sounded different from my own. I think that concept ended here. By the time I wrote this story, Eli Lindy and Chris Leavens became one again. I like this one quite a bit, actually. It's about the local eccentric and, the realitization that life's pretty boring without him. (CL)
Vote 0 Votes
I came up with the concept for Time Canyon during a period in which ridiculous forms of time travel fascinated me. It was pretty hard to write within the constraints I set up for the Canyon and I don't consider this one of my best Pork Pony stories, but it's still somewhat entertaining. My friends liked it, so I'm putting it up. (CL)
Vote 0 Votes
This is another story I initially published under the pen name Eli Lindy. The characters in the story are very closely related to people I knew growing up. There actually was a guy called Chocolate Face who went to the same church as I did and the Wayner is based on a crazy friend Weaver and I graduated with. (CL)
Vote 0 Votes
That Pen takes the idea of borrowing/stealing a pen at the office to an extreme. I wrote this story for the sixth issue of Pork Pony under the pen name Eli Lindy. I didn't want people to think the site was just a bunch of crap by me, so I hid behind this and a few other psuedonyms until we recruited a few more writers. A bunch of people seemed to like this story, told from the point of view of a good ol' boy. (CL)
Vote 0 Votes
Biscuit appeared in the third issue of Pork Pony. I'd consider it the best of my stories from the early PP days and one of my favorite stories I've written. It's the story of a sentient plastic donkey head trying to fit in among humans. -CL
Vote 0 Votes

Category Archives

About this Archive

This page is an archive of recent entries in the Chris Leavens category.

Craig J. Clark is the next category.

Find recent content on the main index or look in the archives to find all content.