#brain curd

Brain Curds are barely-edited fiction, poetry, or just about anything else - drafted in a day or less. It’s Sanka.

I cancelled my subscription last night, and this morning they sent a nine-millimeter wellness check to my door.

“Good day to you,” the officer said, polishing his Glock. “May I come in?”

I stared at his face through the crack in the door. The chain was still engaged, but it was the barest bit of drywall holding it to the door. I knew if he really wanted to come in, he’d make it happen regardless of my answer.

“Uh…” I stammered. “You know, I was just in the middle of breakfast and I’m not quite prepared to entertain guests, so I’ll have to ask you to -”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” He chuckled, his hand still caressing the gun through a cleaning cloth. “I don’t need anything fancy.”

“That may be, but I still -”

“Your friends at Amazon are concerned, Miss Leo. I’ll go as soon as I feel confident I can tell them you’re A-OK.” He held up a straining thumb.

My stomach went skydiving and I gulped it back down. “Very well, then.” I shut the door, unlatched it, and opened it all the way.

He holstered his pistol and strolled inside, looking around. “Lovely place you have here. Just moved in?”

“Yes, uh, well… It’s been a few months, but I’m still unpacking. Can I get you some coffee?”

“Certainly, thank you.”

There was still some warm water in the kettle, so I poured it over a spoonful of crystals. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Two and two.”

I opened some packets I swiped from the Denny’s down the street and stirred with a wooden stick. “Here you go.” I handed him the well-loved mug.

“My, my,” he said after taking a sip. “This mug has seen better days, eh?”

I chuckled, though it wasn’t very funny. “It still holds liquid, though, now doesn’t it?”

“Amazon Basics coffee mugs are very affordable. Prime Day is coming up, don’t you know? I’m sure you could save even more then.”

“Or… I could keep using this mug.”

Without breaking his gaze, he released his grip and allowed the mug to slip, shattering on impact after bouncing from his boot. Coffee went all over the floor. “Oops, I’m sorry about that. There’s some jitter on my trigger fingers, you understand.”

I shuddered looking at the wreckage. “That mug was the last thing I still had from my great grandmother… but, uhm, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“I bet you wish you had that Prime membership back, don’t you? They gave me a code for a free month with the purchase of a year, if you’d like it.”

“No, no…” I got on my knees with a rag. “I should pick up a replacement at the local thrift. They have plenty of them.”

“They couldn’t compete with the selection, though. You could have a matching set from Amazon.”

“I’m not one for matching, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Right, yes…” He awkwardly moved to the next sales pitch. “And you only have one lamp in here. What is that, an Ikea?”

“No idea.”

“They have Ikea products on Amazon these days, do you know that?”

“I really think there are enough lamps in the world, officer. I don’t need to be buying new ones.”

“Not even on clearance? Or, better yet, by ordering from Amazon Haul, you can save even more by shipping direct from the manufacturer.”

“I can see fine.”

There was a blast of gunpowder and the sound of a shattering bulb. I looked up to see the gun in his hand, smoking, and a bullet hole through the lampshade. His head turned slowly toward me. “Don’t you think you ought to buy something?”

“N-n-no…?”

He put his gun back in his holster and tipped his hat. “Well, I just had to make sure.” He walked to the door and stepped out, but his head turned back inside. “I understand if you’re not presently in need of any of Amazon’s products, miss. But…” He clicked his tongue. “It’d be a damn shame if you didn’t know they offer Amazon Health insurance packages fit to every budget. Never know when something could happen.”

I trembled. My eggs attempted to jump back out of my gullet on a raft of toast. “I’ll sign up tonight.” I nodded. “Yeah, tonight.”

He smiled. “Great. I’ll let them know.”

Penned 2025.10.06

Brain Curds are barely-edited fiction, poetry, or just about anything else - drafted in a day or less. I really need to do more research on Liverpudlian slang. In true Brain Curd spirit (though the concept was yet to exist), I kinda just wing’d it. Wung it?

Oi, it’s been a long road to get to this point, hasn’t it? Every day, I wake up in a bloody tour bus at half-past five in the afternoon and play in a sold-out stadium in some big city. I swear, my ears don’t stop ringing anymore. It’s not even the speakers, it’s the fucking crowds making my ears bleed. Why won’t they stop screaming?

It was nicer when I was just sitting in my bedroom with a shitty guitar from the pawnbroker. No crowds, no yelling, just the worst webcam you’ve ever seen and a five meg internet connection. Those YouTube vids were just for shits and giggles, and they had to go and get two million views.

It wasn’t down to luck. I made a deal with the devil not even knowing it. I didn’t find out ‘til later that the Degenerati pulled strings to make me big. And well, they came around for payment. Joke’s on them, though, because I haven’t got the time to go on any of their spy missions, or whatever they call ‘em, since I never get a day off. The demand is too fucking high. That’s what my manager says, and it’s true, innit? Front row tickets are scalped for thirty grand, y’know!

Ooh, I tell you, it feels real good to write something again. Haven’t written a thing in years, honestly, since my wrist is so knackered from the guitar. I used to write all my songs, back when I still cared. It's a half-arsed effort now; artificial, really. My songs are written and produced by teams of 'hit makers,' or the usual gang of wankers as I call 'em. I think they’re all a load of rubbish, but the fans love it.

Before I blew up, I was sleeping on a couch. Now I sleep on a mattress about as wide as a couch, on a metal tube full of shit. A lateral move, really. Can’t say the money has brought me much comfort. But at least I might get back in the studio sometime soon to record the worst thing Abbey Road has yet been subjected to: a hit pop song in the making called “You’re So Tasty.”

Wait a tick, I need to go vomit. See you on stage!

Penned 2023.08.13

Brain Curds are barely-edited fiction, poetry, or just about anything else - drafted in a day or less. I’m sure there’s an explanation for all of this.

“Yes?” I asked as I opened the door.

“Is this your son?” The woman snarled. “Because I think you should know what he’s been getting up to.”

A meek looking teenager stood behind her with his hands in his pockets and his eyes to the ground.

My left eye twitched. “Uh… no?”

She crossed her arms. “Very mature. Very mature. No, really, you’re setting a great example for your kid.”

“What?”

“Lying. Lying doesn’t look good on you. Doesn’t look good on anybody.”

“Lady, I’m telling you this isn’t my son. I have no idea who either of you are. Do you even live in this neighborhood?”

“Do you even care what happens to your son? He’s going to grow up and be a liar just like you, is that what you want?”

The teen spoke up. “Come on… Dad… let me inside so I can…” He looked back and forth between me and the woman. “Think about what I’ve done?”

I shook my head. “I’m not letting you inside my house. I don’t know you.”

“But…” He started to tear up. “Where will I live? Where will I go? How can you disown me like this?”

“You can go back to wherever it was you woke up this morning. That’s not my problem.”

The woman stomped her feet. “You’re cold! No wonder your son is such a hooligan, you barely love him more than your dog!”

“I don’t have a dog either!”

“Then who dug up my rosebushes?”

I pointed at the kid. “Maybe he did it.”

She whipped her head around and tilted it at him. “Let me see your fingernails.”

The teen put his hands up. “I swear I didn’t do it! I didn’t do anything!”

“I see soil under those nails! You rapscallion!”

“Out of curiosity,” I said, “What exactly did he do?”

“He washed my car!”

I blinked. “Hm?”

“He washed my car without permission and he used paper towels! It scratched the coating! That’s a Mary Kay car! Do you have any idea how many tubes of lipstick I had to buy to get that car?!? And now it’s ruined!”

The teen trembled. “I swear I used microfiber, Dad! I swear! And the dirt is from trying to catch the groundhogs, that’s all!”

“Uh huh…” I clicked my tongue. “If you ask me, you’re both unhinged. I’d like you to get off my property or I’m calling the cops.” I slammed the door.

“What was that, honey?” My wife asked from the other room. “Is Brengland home from the neighbor’s?”

Chuckling to myself, I threw an empty paper towel roll in the recycle bin. “I think he’s still busy, dear. That was just a saleswoman. And not a very good one.”

Penned 2025.10.11

Brain Curds are barely-edited fiction, poetry, or just about anything else - drafted in a day or less. What's the deal with stand up comedy?

This morning I logged into an account I never use and was told I needed to reset my password.

Passwords - gotta love ‘em. Because if you don’t love ‘em, you’ll forget ‘em, and then you’ll have to reset ‘em and come up with another one. Then you type that one in and it says, “Your new password cannot be the same as your old password.” Great.

The challenge is in coming up with something that sticks with you that also contains an uppercase letter, a lowercase letter, a number, and at least one special character. Because if you could just use normal words, well, a hacker would get right into your account! But if you follow these important rules, that same hacker - who cleverly has already tried logging into your account with every possible combination of English words, courtesy of the typewriter monkeys - will collapse to his knees and throw his fists to the ground. “Dammit! Foiled again! Her password must contain… an AMPERSAND!”

So you think about it for a minute and decide you’re going to use your dog’s name and the city you grew up in, but every ‘s’ is replaced with a dollar sign and every ‘i’ is replaced with a one. “Fantastic,” you think, “I’ll remember this password for sure.” So you type it in, then type it in a second time to prove it wasn’t a fluke, and you hit enter only to find out they have a fifteen character limit.

I’m sorry? I thought you wanted me to come up with a secure password. Instead, you just told me, “hey, this is great and all, but can we wrap this up? I’ve got a data breach scheduled for this afternoon.”

It’s always data breaches, isn’t it? You never hear anybody say, “I accidentally gave my credit union password to a guy on the bus and now my billing address is in Utah.” Instead, an email comes in from Twitter or some shit saying, “ooooh…. So, here’s the thing… don’t be mad… but you know that password that you gave us that only you’re supposed to know and that you definitely also use for Facebook and the DMV? Yeah… our bad, but Martha from accounting wrote it down on a sticky note and left it in the break room and it fell right out the window. Yeah. This has also happened to ten-thousand other people.”

Half the time, these breaches are from companies I’ve barely heard of, and especially never done business with. Accellion, Experian, Sizzler. They’ve all leaked my social security number to the dark web, and all they can say is ‘oops’. Then, to cover their asses, they provide a year of fully paid premium identity protection. I get a new one every three months-ish, so I’m pretty much impenetrable at this point (side note: that’s why I’m still single). But yeah, just try and steal my student loan debt, I dare you!

Speaking of that, anyone remember the SAVE program? Saving on A Valuable Education? It was supposed to revolutionize student loan repayments, so that you only had to pay ten percent of your discretionary income and your balance wouldn’t grow as long as you made your payments. I signed up the moment I was allowed to - you know, I think most people did. Loan forgiveness being blocked by a kangaroo court notwithstanding, this was a huge deal - especially for the most oppressed group of people in this country: the college-educated unemployed.

Of course, now the federal government has decided that we were all deficient in covering our zero-dollar payments and we’re in forbearance. Sorry to educate you, but that means my loans are accruing interest for the first time ever and the only way out is to admit defeat, give up on what I was promised, and put all my loans into a repayment plan that Donald Trump approves of. Fuck him. The way I see it, the more money I owe, the more money they have to give up if they throw me in a death camp.

Sorry, that was rude of me to talk about such a sensitive topic as student loans. How about parents? Let’s talk about parents.

Penned 2025.10.13

Brain Curds are barely-edited fiction, poetry, or just about anything else - drafted in a day or less. Way back when I was still more actively workshopping Order of the Degenerati, I wrote some POV vignettes to get the hang of the characters. Some were more successful than others, but since I’m trying to reach BC#500 before the new year (on my end, anyway), you’re gonna see them for the first time! Welcome to Rerun Week!

God, I hate customers sometimes. And by that, I mean I hate customers all the time. Maybe it’d be different if I was paid better, but all I’m doing is helping Harvey pay his own mortgage.

Here’s an example of something that happened the other day: I was taking inventory in the back room when Kyle rushed in, saying someone was trying to return a book. Why he couldn’t handle it himself, I don’t know. He’s worked there longer than I have, but I guess he’s two pages short of a novella, so I’ll cut him some slack.

Anyway, I popped over to register one, and there was this large woman, soaking wet, wearing a massive fluffy purple coat. It was like Cruella DeVil got ahold of the carcass of Barney the Dinosaur. Anyway, the woman was soaked, and it wasn’t even raining outside so I have no clue as to why.

She handed me a book, also dripping wet, that was so water-stained I figured this couldn’t have been the first time it was submerged. It was then I saw her small lap dog - a dachshund, I think - sticking its face slightly out of her (also purple) handbag. It was staring at me, menacingly, but I had to focus on the task at hand.

“I’d like to return this book,” she said. “It’s defective.”

“In what way is it defective, exactly?”

“Two of the pages in the middle are blank.”

Conveniently, there was a bookmark still in the middle. It had a logo on it, I think from the Girl Scouts. Could have been part of a cookie box. It wasn’t soggy because someone had laminated it.

Sure enough, there were two blank pages. Now, I’m not one to accept merchandise with defects, as a consumer. But as a retail worker getting paid minimum wage, I wasn’t in the mood to take back a book soaked in god-knows-what, and I was honestly pissed off that I’d have to mop the floor after she left.

“This book is water damaged. I can’t accept it as a return.”

“But it was misprinted!”

She had a fair point. And her dog looked angry at me.

“I’ll see what I can do. But I’ll need your receipt.”

She fumbled around in her pockets, trying desperately to find it, and she pulled out a neatly folded square of paper. She set it on the counter.

Frankly, I was perplexed to see that it was dry, perhaps the only dry thing in her possession, and I was flattered that she would give up such a special object to me. Or perhaps I’m being sarcastic. Anyway, I unfolded it, and would you believe it? The receipt was for this book, but it was purchased from the Barnes & Noble all the way across town.

“Ma’am, you didn’t buy this book here. It’s from a different store entirely.”

“But you sell books, yes?”

I looked around at some of the several dozen bookshelves within my field of view, just to make sure. “Yes, we do.”

“Then can I at least get a replacement? Or store credit?”

Obviously, I was not supposed to do that. But at this point I just wanted her to leave, and I didn’t feel like calling the cops because mopping up water is much easier than mopping up blood. It wasn’t a popular book anyway.

“I’ll see if we have replacements in the back.” I said, and walked back from whence I came. Kyle was standing there in the back room, mostly still, muttering to himself about koalas.

“Is she gone?” he asked.

“She will be soon. I’m giving her a replacement.”

“Oh, okay,” he said, and continued standing there doing nothing.

“Why don’t you go get a mop and start on the puddles by the register?”

“Oh, okay,” he said, and continued standing there doing nothing.

Whatever.

I grabbed the book from the shelf. It was dusty, from years of sitting there, but I checked the middle pages and they were all accounted for. Honestly, I’d been meaning to read this one too but never got around to it for some reason.

I returned to the register, victorious. “I’ve found a pristine copy for you, ma’am. One hardback printing of Tales from Starved Childhoods by Cassandra Erica.”

“Thank you so much,” she replied, taking it from me. “I was really getting into it. The missing pages threw me off my rhythm, but now I can finish the book. It’s perhaps the funniest thing I’ve ever read.” She winked at me and walked away, leaving her old copy behind. I would have almost enjoyed the exchange if I didn’t have to mop the damn floors.

Penned 2023.08.12

Brain Curds are barely-edited fiction, poetry, or just about anything else - drafted in a day or less. Mmm… cold plums.

Penned 2025.12.24

Brain Curds are barely-edited fiction, poetry, or just about anything else - drafted in a day or less. I’ll finish it tomorrow. Yeah…

Madison Blanc was the first to receive the implant. Following a suicide attempt, researchers at her university approached her with an offer that was all too easy to accept.

“The difficult part of life,” the experimental surgeon said, “is that there are far too many decisions and that taking actions activates the risk center of the brain. It’s horribly stressful, no?”

Madison nodded.

“This, we hypothesize, is why people give up. Living is not difficult, no, but choosing to live, making those impossible decisions and walking those rocky paths, that is what brings, how you say, fatigue? Yes. But what I have here…” Dr. Rand held up a small vial containing a microchip. “This will make all of that go away. Say you go to a party, yes? And you see a cute boy in the corner, drinking and laughing with his friends. You want him to kiss you, yes? But to ask, to ask is… it is mortifying. You wish to die right there, right on the spot, be smitten by a deity and vaporized, rather than ask for what you want.”

Madison had never really wanted a boy to kiss her, but she nodded along anyway to make the doctor happy.

“This chip, once implanted into the correct lobe of your brain, will ask him for you. And all you must do is sit back and enjoy the pleasures of life, all the more bountiful since the implant will without fail pursue your own rational self-interests. Good deal, no? But it gets better!” Rand grinned. “The chip is not only effective at love, it is perhaps the best investment a young girl could make into her future, better than your college degree, because not only will it earn you this degree but it will earn you scholarships and exploit tax codes to get you this degree for as little money as possible. It will get you better jobs! Exciting, no?”

“What’s the catch?” Madison asked. It was the final question she ever uttered before the procedure.

~

When Madison woke up, something felt missing. She wasn’t sure what it was, but a weight had been lifted from her shoulders and placed somewhere else. It was a relief. She basked in the glow of relaxation, not even caring about the scratchy sheets on the hospital bed.

“Hello, Miss Blanc!” Dr. Rand waved as she entered the room. “How are you feeling?”

Sleepy, she tried to respond. But the words didn’t come out of her mouth.

“Oh, my apologies. You may notice your brain works differently now. I assume you tried to answer, yes? But your actions are no longer tied to the part of your brain that they used to be wired to. The chip interfaces directly with the desire portion of the brain. It may take some getting used to, but if you wish to speak to me you must want it.”

“I want some goddamn ice cream,” Madison’s voice said. She was horrified that she’d uttered something so rude.

“Nurse?” Dr. Rand called out. “A frozen dessert, please.” She leaned in and whispered. “Your active half will learn with time that social niceties produce quicker results. But that is no matter now. The chip appears to be working, hm?”

The cup of ice cream was placed on a tray in front of Madison and she tore into it without a thought, spooning it into her mouth. It was bizarre - she could taste it, she could even feel the sensation of holding the cold steel spoon, but she wasn’t doing any of it. She was a passenger in her own body, and a stranger sat behind the wheel.

Penned 2025.08.11 (that’s too long ago)

Brain Curds are barely-edited fiction, poetry, or just about anything else - drafted in a day or less. Chronolizer's Note: In 3072, it is considered unhealthy to spend too much of your time working. But then again, that's not really different from your era, is it?

Set in a far-off post-scarcity utopia, Solarpunk 3072 follows Eustace - who, like everyone else, has everything. Everything except something to do, that is.

Chairman Horne took a sip of his peppermint latte through a biodegradable straw. Harriet drew a douglas fir in the foam, which he found so charming that he dared not disturb it sooner than necessary. He exhaled and leaned back in his chair. It was a slow day - only one application on the docket, and it wasn’t scheduled for another couple minutes.

Anyone other than Hubert Crumb would have been here by now to get it over with, but that man was a stickler for detail. Tell him to arrive at one-fifteen and he won’t be a second early or late. He was notorious for counting individual sesame seeds on his hamburger buns and picking off extras with tweezers. Rumor had it, he carried a refractometer and hand-tested his soda fountains’ ratios on an hourly basis. Perhaps he was just finishing a status check now…

Mr. Crumb entered the front door of City Hall and straightened his bowtie before checking the watch on his left hand - he had two of them. His gray hair was slicked back and his gray mustache was slicked down. There was no hint of shadow on his chin or cheeks, only an impossibly clean shave. He stood right where he was, centered on the door mat, his eyes not budging from the watch.

“Mr. Crumb?” Horne called out. “We can get started -”

Crumb held up a finger. When the clock struck two, he put it down. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Horne.” He walked forward and held out his hand. “As you have no doubt read, I have an exciting venture to add to this fine city.”

Horne shook Crumb’s hand. “Yes, yes, I have taken a look at your application. Please, take a seat.”

“I trust everything is in order?”

“Indeed, it is… I do have some questions, however.”

“Of course. Proceed.”

“You say here that your Crumburgers location on First Street is exceptionally successful.”

“It is. There’s a line out the door at all times.”

“I’ve seen as much. Fantastic food, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Well worth the wait. So I do understand why you want to open another location at the vacant venue on Fourth Street…”

“Yes?”

“But myself and the committee have reservations on the matter. Is it true that you also run three other Crumburgers restaurants - in Ontario, Albuquerque, and Chicago?”

“Yes. I maintain all of them to the highest quality.”

“That you do, Mr. Crumb. And there is little doubt that you could handle a fifth restaurant. The question I find myself asking is, ‘should you?’”

Crumb lowered an eyebrow. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“No person should work too much, and I fear you may be on the precipice. Four restaurants already required special permission from the high council.”

Mr. Crumb huffed, though it was hard to tell through his stoic front. “My current locations cannot keep up with demand. What do you suggest I do?”

“Other businesspeople in your situation have found it useful to take an apprentice. Then, your apprentice can open a new location once their work is up to your standard. It’s much better than consolidation for everyone involved.”

Crumb leaned forward. “I have very exacting standards, Mr. Horne. Just where do you suggest I find an apprentice who has not already decided on their own way of doing things? Hm?”

As if by fate, Eustace burst into the building at just that moment. “Yeesh, what is the matter with people? Everybody always wants to talk to me but they never have anything nice to say!” He plopped into a seat next to his father, which sent him rolling backwards away from the desk. “Who’s this clown?”

“Eustace!” Horace Horne glared at the boy. “Don’t be rude!”

“I’m not being rude! This guy looks ridiculous! Who keeps a handkerchief in their coat pocket anymore? That is so forties. Also…” Eustace squinted in Crumb’s direction. “Why the hell do you have two watches?”

“Such that if one breaks, I will not be out of time with goings-on.”

“Wow…” Eustace put his feet up on the desk. “You need to chill out. It’s not that serious.”

“I take everything seriously,” Hubert argued. “Why else devote one’s life to anything?” He checked his pocket watch, comparing it to both wrists. “It’s nearly time for fryer-temp validation at my nearby location. Am I to take it that my application is denied?”

Horace sighed. “Yes, the committee was split and the decision came down to me. I’m sorry, Mr. Crumb.”

Crumb’s gaze turned back to Eustace. “I take it this is your progeny?”

“He is…” Horace gritted his teeth. “I’m very… proud.”

“I have a bargain, then, if you’ll hear it.”

Horace nodded.

“I shall take this boy as my apprentice. If he is not to my liking you will allot me a second restaurant in town. Deal?”

“I can’t…” Horace looked at Eustace, the poor fool. Maybe, just maybe, this call to action would be enough to finally convince his son to rise to an occasion. Any occasion. “Actually, this is a wonderful idea.”

Eustace stopped chewing on one of his father’s pencils. “Huh?”

“Give it a shot, son. It’ll be good for you.”

Eustace looked as though he were about to roll his eyes, but something behind them turned a counterweight. “Fine. I’ll go try working at Crummyburger if it’ll get you off my back.”

Penned 2025.11.19