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Faux Outrage

Literally the most important blog in the universe since 2010.

Category Archives: Fiction!

Would I lie to you?

When I said that I would be guest-posting on Lessons From Teachers and Twits today, did you think I that was pulling your chain?  Did you assume that I was pulling a fast one — asking you to pull my finger, as it were, but never pulling the trigger?  Is that what you thought?  Don’t pull my leg.

We all know that I could never pull that off.

So it must be true.  It has to be true!

I am blogging over at Renee’s place!

Here’s a little taste of my piece, Substitute Preacher

Nobody asked for my opinion, but I eventually decided
that she deserved some time off.
Ms. Jacobson was pregnant after all, and pregnant women
should not be required to teach fifth period English.  
In fact, I came to realize, pregnant women should not be
required to teach any period of English.  Or anything
else for that matter.  For a brief time, pregnant women
should be entirely devoid of periods.  They should also
say goodbye to: colons, ampersands, & Oxford commas.  
They should take a semester off -- or a trimester, at
the very least.

Don’t stop there.  Make like this is a library book (remember those?) and check it out!

And don’t forget to comment on the post!  I’ll be moderating and discussing the post in the comments section all day, so drop in and say something why don’t ya?

See you there!

(Have you gotten the hint yet?)


WARNING: This post is nothing close to what you’ve come to expect from Faux Outrage.  It’s not (supposed to be) funny.  It’s not wacky, whimsical, or [some other descriptive word that begins with “w”].  Most importantly: it’s not true.  I don’t know if you want to call it fiction or poetry or what, but whatever it is, it’s a deviation from the norm.  So there.  You’ve been warned.  Enjoy!

I didn’t even know they made a 6:35 in the morning.

And yet, here we are, together, standing like statues in the sunlight, half-sleeping on the corner of Fifth and Maryland.

What a coincidence that we have the same goal: to leave Point A in the dust, to say goodbye to all of that.  To leave everything behind except for the clothes on our back.  To forget the past.  Point A is a memory, already fading.  Embrace the future!   We have so much to look forward to.  Think of Point B.  Our Vatican!  Our Jerusalem!  Our Mecca!  Our Mount Olympus!  We will be there soon, standing high atop Point B, our giddy yelps unapologetically echoing throughout the distant valley below.

Without notice or regard, you suddenly yawn widely, wildly, sharp teeth blaring like a new set of speakers.

Like baseball fans doing the wave around a stadium in summertime, your yawn floats thoughtlessly from one soul to the next.

We are tired, our mouths agape in unison.

We are one.

We look shocked, to be honest, but I am certainly not.

We are a team, you and I.

We are yawn buddies, kindred spirits.

We are bus brothers of the morning.

We are anxious soldiers waiting to be deployed.

We are one!

And yet, for some reason you are far too enveloped in your ink-smudged copy of the Tribune to recognize this fact.

I want to rip the newspaper from your fumbling hands and set it on fire.

I am here!

It is 6:40 now and I swear there is dew collecting on my shoulders.  This is the kind of theory that I would confirm if I weren’t so groggy and apparently glued to this rusted celery stalk of a lamp post.  If You See Something, Say Something! an official-looking sign pleads vaguely.

“I see you’re reading the newspaper!”


“The newspaper?”

“Yeah.” you say, still staring into the black and white void.

You didn’t even look up.

What happened to our plan?

I close my eyes and brace for a cool breeze that never arrives.  Only the sporadic and unnatural gusts brought on by the Civics and Camrys and Corollas slicing through the silence placate my senses.

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