clive heelies

Click, click, click

Clive’s hands frantically wound around the Rubik’s cube, pausing only when he felt the need to stare at it; confused. This was his puzzle game - a Rubik’s Cube that he spent good money on, twelve bucks exactly. It was a pretty fancy cube. Holographic and everything.

“Focus.” He told himself for the fifth time that day. The first time was when he was preparing an omelette. He still smelled of burnt eggs.
His other attempts at focusing only left him smelling worse.

Click

Something in his brain clicked. Suddenly, it made sense! He began slowly and strategically shifting the cube’s rows. “Clive, you’re a genius!”
He was talking to himself a lot that day.

Click

Did he step on something? He heard the sound from far below.

It was a kid.

This kid had just finished his own Rubik’s Cube, tossing it over his shoulder.
Oh my god, it wasn’t just an ordinary Rubike’s cube. In every square was a complex math problem, the answers scrawled in in crayon.

Conan kicked Clive in the shins, and grabbed the Rubik’s Cube that fell to the ground.

“HEY!” Clive shouted, probably out of character because I’m not sure how Clive even acts, “DUMBASS, WHAT WAS THAT!?” He yelled at this random child detective.

“That was your puzzle game dying.” Conan said, completing Clive’s Rubik’s Cube almost instantly and also tossing it over his shoulder. He gave Clive one last glare, just to make sure he was jealous of his puzzle game and nerdy glasses, and began walking off in the direction of the nearest Rubik’s Cube factory.

I lied im writing a PREQUEL

Clive and the complicated omelette

Life is precious. The egg is life at its youngest and purest. It conceals itself within a blank shell, yet is so fragile, so delicate. The egg represents us all before we are set to toil and harden in the boiling waters of life.

But screw boiled eggs, what Clive wanted that morning was an omelette. He opened the carton, observing the 5 eggs that were left. “I’m eggstatic.” he said, his voice monotone and still drenched in sleep. he picked up an egg.

It fell on the floor.

“I meant to do that.” He groaned, picking up a new egg. he looked at it with confusion. Now what?
Clive tried sticking the egg in his mouth. Something wasn’t right. Oh right, fire was involved.

“Focus, Clive” He told himself for the first time that day. A later instance of him focusing would end up with his ass being kicked by a child. That happened fairly often.

Now standing in the shattered remains of the previous egg, Clive tossed the next one into the pan. Picking out the pieces of shell was hard work, especially when your fingers were burned.

“MAKING OMELETTE xOXOXO” Was the caption he put on his selfie. As he tagged it, he noticed that behind his beautiful duck face was smoke rising from the pan. He spun around to find his egg a carbon crisp.

“You didn’t focus” said conan’s voice in the distant, “Omelette game is dead”

Clive, hugging the burning pan to his body, kneeled on the ground, soaking himself in the life juices of the other egg. It was 7:25 AM and already tragedy had struck.