Only fascists wouldn't consider participating in this clash of carefully chosen words in the comments, because fascists don't know how to have fun.
There were things lurking underneath the bed. Dark things. Terrible things. Maggie tried the old ‘put the sheets over your head’ trick, but she knew it only delayed the inevitable crunch of her bones.
This is where axes come in handy. She had much to explain to her parents, though.
Showing posts with label drabble. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drabble. Show all posts
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
50-Word Short Story #3
Aw yeah, everyone. It's Go Time. Everyone is welcome to make their own contributions in the comments and I shall respond in kind!
There were fast times at Fort Whoop-up and the American purveyors of illegal spirits were in a fine mood. They were well on their way to meeting their unofficial corporate goal of having the entire population of the prairies stinking drunk.
Until the Mounties spoiled everything. Just like the Man.
There were fast times at Fort Whoop-up and the American purveyors of illegal spirits were in a fine mood. They were well on their way to meeting their unofficial corporate goal of having the entire population of the prairies stinking drunk.
Until the Mounties spoiled everything. Just like the Man.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
50-word short story #2
Piper, Jimmy - it's on! Read the comments, everyone else, and post if you got 'em.
The mountains crumbled. The seas ran dry, spilling into the cracks in the earth. Volcanoes cooled. Winds stilled. Fire ceased to burn.
The survivors of humanity gazed upon their broken world as they drifted in their spaceships. Captain Rodriguez turned to his fellows and said, “Glad we left that place.”
The mountains crumbled. The seas ran dry, spilling into the cracks in the earth. Volcanoes cooled. Winds stilled. Fire ceased to burn.
The survivors of humanity gazed upon their broken world as they drifted in their spaceships. Captain Rodriguez turned to his fellows and said, “Glad we left that place.”
Friday, September 3, 2010
It Must Be Bunnies
Another 500-word, written in an hour story. Prompt provided by Isaac.
In the hall of the High Emperor, a debate of the gravest importance was underway.
Courtiers, clad in their house colours, swarmed about the throne. They shouted and seethed. Those with an arm free were using it to either raise their fist in the air or point at others in a most unseemly fashion. Every one of them held a small, furry mammal – one of a dizzying array of species then represented in the hall.
The High Emperor held his hand aloft for silence. Immediately, the courtiers ceased their bickering, aside from the occasional dagger-like glares.
“Gentlemen and gentleladies,” said the High Emperor in his ancient, highly-enunciated way. “This matter is too great to be wasted on such common prattling. We shall go through the candidates one by one and by those means, judge their qualities. Present the first candidate!”
Nobles being nobles, they had the order of precedence sorted out centuries ago. Thus it was that the Duke of Delia stepped forward, pot-bellied piglet in hand. He bowed as he presented it to the High Emperor, who picked it up gingerly. Soon, the piglet was squirming with glee as the High Emperor scratched it behind the ears.
“Yes, yes,” said the High Emperor. “Not as fluffy as we would like, but a charming and agreeable animal all the same. Given its species, we think it would grow into an intelligent beast, but how clean would it be?” After five minutes of petting the piglet and cooing at it, he returned it to the Duke of Delia. “Present the second candidate!”
The Duchess of Arshane was next, clasping in her arms a tiger cub. She handed it over to the High Emperor, whereupon it proceeded to gnaw and slobber upon his silken robes.
“Certainly adorable,” declared the High Emperor. “And fluffy. But we are concerned about its potential for destruction as it ages into maturity and also feel that it might be happiest frolicking on a reserve. Also, we believe that it would terrify the servants.” He shook his head, almost mournfully. “We are sorry, Arshane. But it cannot be. Present the third candidate!”
The Duchess of Arshane took this rejection with the stoicism for which her line was known. She reclaimed her beast and backed away into the crowd, the cub chewing on her brocade sleeves.
On it went. The monkey, the puppy, the kitten – all were examined and found wanting. Until Sir Lockley presented to him a most floppy-eared creature.
The bunny cast a most disapproving look upon him – black, beady, and unyielding.
“Bunnies!” declared the High Emperor. “It must be bunnies!”
He let the astonished murmurs of the courtiers carry on for some time before holding his hand aloft again. “It appears we must explain our decision. Look upon the bunny. See its disapproval! Clearly, it is the most honest and forthright creature in this land! Therefore!”
The High Emperor stood, bearing the bunny on high. “The bunny shall forevermore be the symbol of this royal house!”
In the hall of the High Emperor, a debate of the gravest importance was underway.
Courtiers, clad in their house colours, swarmed about the throne. They shouted and seethed. Those with an arm free were using it to either raise their fist in the air or point at others in a most unseemly fashion. Every one of them held a small, furry mammal – one of a dizzying array of species then represented in the hall.
The High Emperor held his hand aloft for silence. Immediately, the courtiers ceased their bickering, aside from the occasional dagger-like glares.
“Gentlemen and gentleladies,” said the High Emperor in his ancient, highly-enunciated way. “This matter is too great to be wasted on such common prattling. We shall go through the candidates one by one and by those means, judge their qualities. Present the first candidate!”
Nobles being nobles, they had the order of precedence sorted out centuries ago. Thus it was that the Duke of Delia stepped forward, pot-bellied piglet in hand. He bowed as he presented it to the High Emperor, who picked it up gingerly. Soon, the piglet was squirming with glee as the High Emperor scratched it behind the ears.
“Yes, yes,” said the High Emperor. “Not as fluffy as we would like, but a charming and agreeable animal all the same. Given its species, we think it would grow into an intelligent beast, but how clean would it be?” After five minutes of petting the piglet and cooing at it, he returned it to the Duke of Delia. “Present the second candidate!”
The Duchess of Arshane was next, clasping in her arms a tiger cub. She handed it over to the High Emperor, whereupon it proceeded to gnaw and slobber upon his silken robes.
“Certainly adorable,” declared the High Emperor. “And fluffy. But we are concerned about its potential for destruction as it ages into maturity and also feel that it might be happiest frolicking on a reserve. Also, we believe that it would terrify the servants.” He shook his head, almost mournfully. “We are sorry, Arshane. But it cannot be. Present the third candidate!”
The Duchess of Arshane took this rejection with the stoicism for which her line was known. She reclaimed her beast and backed away into the crowd, the cub chewing on her brocade sleeves.
On it went. The monkey, the puppy, the kitten – all were examined and found wanting. Until Sir Lockley presented to him a most floppy-eared creature.
The bunny cast a most disapproving look upon him – black, beady, and unyielding.
“Bunnies!” declared the High Emperor. “It must be bunnies!”
He let the astonished murmurs of the courtiers carry on for some time before holding his hand aloft again. “It appears we must explain our decision. Look upon the bunny. See its disapproval! Clearly, it is the most honest and forthright creature in this land! Therefore!”
The High Emperor stood, bearing the bunny on high. “The bunny shall forevermore be the symbol of this royal house!”
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
The Afterlife of Abraham Lincoln
Another 500-word short story, done in an hour. More or less. Stupid leaf blower. Anyway, the prompt of 'zombie Lincoln's last hour' was provided by the singular Piper.
Abraham Lincoln was unhappy.
Not long ago – he couldn’t remember how long, as everything was fuzzy – he was president of these United States. He’d won a Civil War. He’d been watching a rather funny play. Next thing he knew, some bastard shot him in the head, shouting nonsense in Latin, and then… darkness.
Then light. The doctors peered down at him, not a little disturbed. He demanded an explanation.
They exchanged nervous glances, until one of them manned up and stepped forward. A curly-haired, bearded fellow. Barnes, wasn’t it? “I am afraid, Mr. President… That you part of the walking dead now.” He told him of the assassination, the futile attempts to save him, the perpetrator of the foulest of deeds, the strange magicks of an unidentified priest, every bit. “But at your rate of decomposition, you only have so much time left to you. Choose wisely, Mr. President.”
But he’d already made up his mind.
“Laid low by an actor!” Lincoln cried. “There is nothing for it. I must hunt down this John Wilkes Booth, no matter his talents, and devour his brains. I shall leave immediately.”
~
Booth hunting proved to be more difficult than he anticipated.
The difficulties started with Virginia. Lincoln, accompanied by thirteen Union soldiers, cornered him at a farm, having been tipped off by the farm’s owner. The plan was simple. The soldiers were to shoot him, Lincoln was to rip chunks of flesh from his still-living frame. How could it go awry?
Several bullets later, the dust cleared, revealing no Booth. Inconsolable and hungry, Lincoln feasted on the thirteenth soldier as an example to the others. “It might be wise to disavow knowledge of this Adams fellow,” he told them as they backed away. My, what a delicious bicep! “The public might be disturbed.”
~
After that night, he opted to go solo. Or at least, he liked to think he did. Scuttlebutt travelled through the ranks to the point where every soldier refused to serve at the former President’s side. So he shambled alone in the wilderness. The public would scream and throw things whenever they saw him in the city.
But Lincoln’s thoughts grew dimmer as his brain matter leaked out through his nostrils and gaping maw. The name of ‘Booth’ had been writ large on what was left – and ‘actor’, too, of course. The problem was that the man had come from a whole damnable family of actors!
He found Junius in Ohio. He could still talk then, albeit poorly, and managed to groan out an, “Booooth heeeeere?” Junius, to his credit, shook his head, explained that one should be looking for John but alas, he did not know where he was to be found. Lincoln shambled away and forgot the name.
He found Edwin in New York. By then, his jaw had fallen off and he could only rattle but my, didn’t the fellow look tasty!
Edwin promptly bashed his skull in while his little daughter screamed. Afterwards, they had cake.
Abraham Lincoln was unhappy.
Not long ago – he couldn’t remember how long, as everything was fuzzy – he was president of these United States. He’d won a Civil War. He’d been watching a rather funny play. Next thing he knew, some bastard shot him in the head, shouting nonsense in Latin, and then… darkness.
Then light. The doctors peered down at him, not a little disturbed. He demanded an explanation.
They exchanged nervous glances, until one of them manned up and stepped forward. A curly-haired, bearded fellow. Barnes, wasn’t it? “I am afraid, Mr. President… That you part of the walking dead now.” He told him of the assassination, the futile attempts to save him, the perpetrator of the foulest of deeds, the strange magicks of an unidentified priest, every bit. “But at your rate of decomposition, you only have so much time left to you. Choose wisely, Mr. President.”
But he’d already made up his mind.
“Laid low by an actor!” Lincoln cried. “There is nothing for it. I must hunt down this John Wilkes Booth, no matter his talents, and devour his brains. I shall leave immediately.”
~
Booth hunting proved to be more difficult than he anticipated.
The difficulties started with Virginia. Lincoln, accompanied by thirteen Union soldiers, cornered him at a farm, having been tipped off by the farm’s owner. The plan was simple. The soldiers were to shoot him, Lincoln was to rip chunks of flesh from his still-living frame. How could it go awry?
Several bullets later, the dust cleared, revealing no Booth. Inconsolable and hungry, Lincoln feasted on the thirteenth soldier as an example to the others. “It might be wise to disavow knowledge of this Adams fellow,” he told them as they backed away. My, what a delicious bicep! “The public might be disturbed.”
~
After that night, he opted to go solo. Or at least, he liked to think he did. Scuttlebutt travelled through the ranks to the point where every soldier refused to serve at the former President’s side. So he shambled alone in the wilderness. The public would scream and throw things whenever they saw him in the city.
But Lincoln’s thoughts grew dimmer as his brain matter leaked out through his nostrils and gaping maw. The name of ‘Booth’ had been writ large on what was left – and ‘actor’, too, of course. The problem was that the man had come from a whole damnable family of actors!
He found Junius in Ohio. He could still talk then, albeit poorly, and managed to groan out an, “Booooth heeeeere?” Junius, to his credit, shook his head, explained that one should be looking for John but alas, he did not know where he was to be found. Lincoln shambled away and forgot the name.
He found Edwin in New York. By then, his jaw had fallen off and he could only rattle but my, didn’t the fellow look tasty!
Edwin promptly bashed his skull in while his little daughter screamed. Afterwards, they had cake.
The Rutabaga Mafia
Another 500-word short story, written in an hour. Prompt provided by my mother. She's a strange 'un.
Tom ‘the Swede’ Rutabaga and his cousin, Benny, cornered Eric the Red in a secluded corner of the fridge. Their leafy bits loomed over tubby, ripe tomato in a most threatening fashion. What was even more threatening was their teeny, tiny knives, carved from the bones of some long dead cow, which they pointed right at Eric’s extensive midsection.
“Where’s the money, Rouge?” sneered Tom, twisting his knife in his hands. “You were supposed to pay us back today, Rouge.”
Benny chortled, but did not add any of his own words to this. Benny wasn’t very bright, for a vegetable.
“I… I…” Eric stammered. His belly wouldn’t stop shaking and his eyes darted left and right, looking for escape routes. None were to be found, for the fridge door was closed and thus darkness reigned save for an LED indicator for something or another on the wall. “I’ve had a tough time! Susie’s been eaten and we had to pay for the memorial service and Lucy’s had to visit the shrink ever since she was jostled in the grocery bag and… I’ll give you ten sprouts right now, okay? And the rest tomorrow.” He looked into the baleful eyes of the Rutabaga. “For god’s sake, man!”
The Swede let the tomato sweat for a good, long while, not giving the slightest of responses save for the tightening of his hand on the knife handle and inching it close enough that it scraped his skin. “All right, Rouge,” he said. “Give the tenner over to the nice Benny here, all right?”
Eric could hardly believe what he heard, but the hope had entered him and refused to relinquish its hold. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” he cried, handing over the ten sprouts to the Rutabagas. They counted them, twice, and then they did the most remarkable thing – they drew their knives back, sheathing them in their leafy greens, and nodded. He was free to go.
“Go off, then,” said the Swede. “But remember tomorrow.”
~
But Eric could not pull off miracles.
Debbie Hunter was not having a good day. Nine hours of work, along with an out of town husband and an afterschool babysitter who flaked out on her at the last minute, did not make for any sort of good day. The boys had therefore been by themselves for two hours and oh, had the damage been done.
Now she had to make dinner for the little monsters. Joy.
Tacos, she decided. Tacos would be easy enough. Just fry up the ground beef, grate some cheese, cut up some vegetables, and go. She headed to the fridge to make her dream into a reality and opened its door.
Debbie’s fists clenched. She counted to ten slowly, very slowly, breathing the deepest of breaths with each numeral. When she was done, she said, “All right, which one of you little bastards ruined all the tomatoes?”
All five lay in a red mush by the butter dish. Their juice surrounded the yogurt.
Tom ‘the Swede’ Rutabaga and his cousin, Benny, cornered Eric the Red in a secluded corner of the fridge. Their leafy bits loomed over tubby, ripe tomato in a most threatening fashion. What was even more threatening was their teeny, tiny knives, carved from the bones of some long dead cow, which they pointed right at Eric’s extensive midsection.
“Where’s the money, Rouge?” sneered Tom, twisting his knife in his hands. “You were supposed to pay us back today, Rouge.”
Benny chortled, but did not add any of his own words to this. Benny wasn’t very bright, for a vegetable.
“I… I…” Eric stammered. His belly wouldn’t stop shaking and his eyes darted left and right, looking for escape routes. None were to be found, for the fridge door was closed and thus darkness reigned save for an LED indicator for something or another on the wall. “I’ve had a tough time! Susie’s been eaten and we had to pay for the memorial service and Lucy’s had to visit the shrink ever since she was jostled in the grocery bag and… I’ll give you ten sprouts right now, okay? And the rest tomorrow.” He looked into the baleful eyes of the Rutabaga. “For god’s sake, man!”
The Swede let the tomato sweat for a good, long while, not giving the slightest of responses save for the tightening of his hand on the knife handle and inching it close enough that it scraped his skin. “All right, Rouge,” he said. “Give the tenner over to the nice Benny here, all right?”
Eric could hardly believe what he heard, but the hope had entered him and refused to relinquish its hold. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” he cried, handing over the ten sprouts to the Rutabagas. They counted them, twice, and then they did the most remarkable thing – they drew their knives back, sheathing them in their leafy greens, and nodded. He was free to go.
“Go off, then,” said the Swede. “But remember tomorrow.”
~
But Eric could not pull off miracles.
Debbie Hunter was not having a good day. Nine hours of work, along with an out of town husband and an afterschool babysitter who flaked out on her at the last minute, did not make for any sort of good day. The boys had therefore been by themselves for two hours and oh, had the damage been done.
Now she had to make dinner for the little monsters. Joy.
Tacos, she decided. Tacos would be easy enough. Just fry up the ground beef, grate some cheese, cut up some vegetables, and go. She headed to the fridge to make her dream into a reality and opened its door.
Debbie’s fists clenched. She counted to ten slowly, very slowly, breathing the deepest of breaths with each numeral. When she was done, she said, “All right, which one of you little bastards ruined all the tomatoes?”
All five lay in a red mush by the butter dish. Their juice surrounded the yogurt.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Shiyam and the Genie
Another 500 words, written in an hour. The prompt, 'a girl finds a magic lamp and the genie is contrary', is provided by Ashley C, one of the many excellent Ashleys I know.
You rub the lamp, a genie wafts out, and he grants you three wishes. That’s how it was supposed to go, as everyone agreed. Shiyam, however, was faced with the distinct possibility that ‘everyone’ was talking out of their asses.
The genie – huge, hirsute, so blue he was nigh black, and smelling faintly of something later generations would know as ‘coffee’ – bent double so that he could glare at Shiyam in her eyes. Each of his own golden eyes was larger than her head. “I do so apologise,” he said, the bass of his words so pronounced that they made Shiyam’s bones vibrate. “Perhaps my hearing is diminishing. What do you want me to do?”
Shiyam did not turn and flee, partly on account of the cave wall at her back and partly because she was as stubborn as a goat. She crossed her arms and leaned her head forward until her nose and the genie’s nose were nigh touching. “It’s the rules. Now that I’ve summoned you out of there, you’ve got to grant me the three wishes or you’re just making a mockery of the whole of tradition.”
“No soul informed myself about this so-called ‘tradition’ of yours.”
“Nevertheless, I shall humour you for a spell.” He brought himself up to his full height, which the cave somehow managed to accommodate. Or perhaps he embiggened the cave with his magic to do so? “Mortal! What is your command! I shall grant you three wishes, only the three, and you damn your soul forever if you cannot face their consequences!”
The girl took her time and considered this thoughtfully. She was a peasant, descended from a long line of goat herders, and therefore was exceptionally practical in certain respects. It got to the point where the genie would be tapping his foot on the ground if he had feet and instead settled with tapping his fingers.
Nevertheless, Shiyam came to a decision. “I wish for my sisters to all find kindly, wealthy and intelligent husbands by the time the year is out. They can’t be younger than twenty or older than thirty-five, nor can they drop dead of any injury or malady before my sisters are provided with all the children that my sisters hope for.”
The genie frowned at her. “That hardly gives me much in the way of creative interpretation, does it? Shiyam said nothing, but frowned right back. A sigh, like the voice of an earthquake, rumbled out. “Granted. Next?”
“I wish to know the languages of every land, to the point where I can speak, write, listen and read in any of them with fluency.”
“Granted…”
Shiyam felt her mind fill up with so many strange words and concepts that she felt tingly. She began to speak of her third and final wish.
“I am tired from all this wish granting,” said the genie. “I need a rest.” He retreated back into his lamp.
Shiyam waited. She eventually had to get him out with tweezers.
You rub the lamp, a genie wafts out, and he grants you three wishes. That’s how it was supposed to go, as everyone agreed. Shiyam, however, was faced with the distinct possibility that ‘everyone’ was talking out of their asses.
The genie – huge, hirsute, so blue he was nigh black, and smelling faintly of something later generations would know as ‘coffee’ – bent double so that he could glare at Shiyam in her eyes. Each of his own golden eyes was larger than her head. “I do so apologise,” he said, the bass of his words so pronounced that they made Shiyam’s bones vibrate. “Perhaps my hearing is diminishing. What do you want me to do?”
Shiyam did not turn and flee, partly on account of the cave wall at her back and partly because she was as stubborn as a goat. She crossed her arms and leaned her head forward until her nose and the genie’s nose were nigh touching. “It’s the rules. Now that I’ve summoned you out of there, you’ve got to grant me the three wishes or you’re just making a mockery of the whole of tradition.”
“No soul informed myself about this so-called ‘tradition’ of yours.”
“Nevertheless, I shall humour you for a spell.” He brought himself up to his full height, which the cave somehow managed to accommodate. Or perhaps he embiggened the cave with his magic to do so? “Mortal! What is your command! I shall grant you three wishes, only the three, and you damn your soul forever if you cannot face their consequences!”
The girl took her time and considered this thoughtfully. She was a peasant, descended from a long line of goat herders, and therefore was exceptionally practical in certain respects. It got to the point where the genie would be tapping his foot on the ground if he had feet and instead settled with tapping his fingers.
Nevertheless, Shiyam came to a decision. “I wish for my sisters to all find kindly, wealthy and intelligent husbands by the time the year is out. They can’t be younger than twenty or older than thirty-five, nor can they drop dead of any injury or malady before my sisters are provided with all the children that my sisters hope for.”
The genie frowned at her. “That hardly gives me much in the way of creative interpretation, does it? Shiyam said nothing, but frowned right back. A sigh, like the voice of an earthquake, rumbled out. “Granted. Next?”
“I wish to know the languages of every land, to the point where I can speak, write, listen and read in any of them with fluency.”
“Granted…”
Shiyam felt her mind fill up with so many strange words and concepts that she felt tingly. She began to speak of her third and final wish.
“I am tired from all this wish granting,” said the genie. “I need a rest.” He retreated back into his lamp.
Shiyam waited. She eventually had to get him out with tweezers.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
ESL for Everyone
Another 500-word short story, written in an hour. The prompt, 'teaching ESL', comes courtesy of Laura, who had to teach me how to teach ESL. Poor Laura!
In all the long years of her career, Candace never taught a class like this.
She’d taught at home and abroad, drowned students of all nationalities up to their eyeballs in grammar rules and exceptions to grammar rules, faced the slings and arrows of outrageous culture shock. But this was out of her world.
In most respects, this was a typical ELSA classroom: air-conditioned, whiteboard at ready, with students seated at the tables. The way those students trembled was not normal, even during exams. Nor was the way Candace trembled. The handouts in her grasp moved back and forth with a speed that made the air conditioner unnecessary.
“Gl’yerk,” she said, keeping her voice authoritative even if nothing else about her was. “Spit out a chair so Juanita has a chair to sit on.”
Gl’yerkefonynulria, Secondary Mind of the Eighth Queen of the Kil’rasdyan home world, complied with a stomach-twisting squelch. “Sorry,” she said, while Juanita hurried to the washroom for the roll of paper towel needed to clean off the stickiness.
Candace had to actively stop herself from going to the washroom for an entirely different purpose and by the looks of it, several students were having the same crisis. Nevertheless, she continued. “What did everyone do this weekend?”
Said David, a glasses-clad Chinese man, “I went to Stanley Park with my wife.”
“Oh, neat! What did you see there?”
“We saw the aquarium and…” David trailed off, due to great discomfort. The reason for this was obvious, for one of Gl’yerk’s tentacles had strayed and was caressing his glasses.
“Gl’yerk, it’s not polite to touch other people’s glasses without asking!”
The tentacle shot back to its pouch, along with several others that were straying too close to the other students, leaving only those that held her pen and pulsed coded pulses back to the primary mind. “Sorry,” said Gl’yerk sheepishly.
“It’s all right, it’s all right, just be more careful, okay?” Right. Five minutes into the day and she already almost made one of her students cry. This wasn’t something she’d like to make a habit of. “Anyway, we’re going to start off with a crossword puzzle. I want you to work in pairs for this, so I’ll number you off from one to seven, okay? One to seven. Pay attention to your number.”
Juanita had returned by this point and was busily mopping up her chair with Lulu’s aid. ‘One’ and ‘two’, they were.
Gl’yerk was a number seven, thus she was paired with Dmitri, who had purposefully chosen a seat as far away from her as possible to begin with. He inched towards her, face pale, teeth chattering, but the others dared not comment. Gl’yerk’s hearing frequencies were too good.
Candace handed the worksheets out. She stood back and hoped.
Gl’yerk considered the problem for a moment. Then, without further ado, she unleashed a tentacle at Dmitri’s skull, sucked out the required information, then photostatically transferred the answers onto the paper.
She beamed hugely. Dmitri fainted.
In all the long years of her career, Candace never taught a class like this.
She’d taught at home and abroad, drowned students of all nationalities up to their eyeballs in grammar rules and exceptions to grammar rules, faced the slings and arrows of outrageous culture shock. But this was out of her world.
In most respects, this was a typical ELSA classroom: air-conditioned, whiteboard at ready, with students seated at the tables. The way those students trembled was not normal, even during exams. Nor was the way Candace trembled. The handouts in her grasp moved back and forth with a speed that made the air conditioner unnecessary.
“Gl’yerk,” she said, keeping her voice authoritative even if nothing else about her was. “Spit out a chair so Juanita has a chair to sit on.”
Gl’yerkefonynulria, Secondary Mind of the Eighth Queen of the Kil’rasdyan home world, complied with a stomach-twisting squelch. “Sorry,” she said, while Juanita hurried to the washroom for the roll of paper towel needed to clean off the stickiness.
Candace had to actively stop herself from going to the washroom for an entirely different purpose and by the looks of it, several students were having the same crisis. Nevertheless, she continued. “What did everyone do this weekend?”
Said David, a glasses-clad Chinese man, “I went to Stanley Park with my wife.”
“Oh, neat! What did you see there?”
“We saw the aquarium and…” David trailed off, due to great discomfort. The reason for this was obvious, for one of Gl’yerk’s tentacles had strayed and was caressing his glasses.
“Gl’yerk, it’s not polite to touch other people’s glasses without asking!”
The tentacle shot back to its pouch, along with several others that were straying too close to the other students, leaving only those that held her pen and pulsed coded pulses back to the primary mind. “Sorry,” said Gl’yerk sheepishly.
“It’s all right, it’s all right, just be more careful, okay?” Right. Five minutes into the day and she already almost made one of her students cry. This wasn’t something she’d like to make a habit of. “Anyway, we’re going to start off with a crossword puzzle. I want you to work in pairs for this, so I’ll number you off from one to seven, okay? One to seven. Pay attention to your number.”
Juanita had returned by this point and was busily mopping up her chair with Lulu’s aid. ‘One’ and ‘two’, they were.
Gl’yerk was a number seven, thus she was paired with Dmitri, who had purposefully chosen a seat as far away from her as possible to begin with. He inched towards her, face pale, teeth chattering, but the others dared not comment. Gl’yerk’s hearing frequencies were too good.
Candace handed the worksheets out. She stood back and hoped.
Gl’yerk considered the problem for a moment. Then, without further ado, she unleashed a tentacle at Dmitri’s skull, sucked out the required information, then photostatically transferred the answers onto the paper.
She beamed hugely. Dmitri fainted.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Fear and Loathing in Lethbridge
A 500-word short story, written in an hour at the prompting of Isaac.
We were somewhere around the Mac’s across the street from the schoolyard when the drugs began to take hold.
We’d graduated three months ago – Daniel, Margaret, and I – and we’d quickly come to the realisation that not only were there no incredible wow jobs waiting for us when we got our diplomas in our hot little hands, but that we were stuck. In Lethbridge. Land of a few tortured trees and weather that couldn’t stay consistent from one hour to the next. So we did what we had to do. Take some shitty ass job to pay the bills until such a time as we could escape and smoke pot. Lots of pot.
But as we meandered our way across the crosswalk, honked at by asshole drivers, a light went off in my brain.
It didn’t have to be like this.
We could go, all of us. And it wouldn’t have to be to Calgary.
I reached into my bag of chips. Good ideas required lots of sustenance.
“So hey, guys,” I said, once I had swallowed and we were safely onto the opposite sidewalk. “What if… what if… we can get out of here, y’know?”
Margaret giggled. A shrill sound, but she couldn’t help it. “Yeah, and do what? We could go to Vancouver and, I don’t know, work another shitty job. And pay twice as much for rent.” She giggled again. “Yeah, that would be awesome.”
Daniel slapped my back in sympathy. I think he meant it to be a pat, but, well, that’s Daniel for you. “We’d all like to go, man –“
“Lady. Boobs.”
“Lady, but we’re, like, adults now. We’ve got responsibilities and shit. We just can’t go flying out of here like nobody’s business.”
But I knew it didn’t have to be like this. And I would prove it to them.
The next morning, I was free of the pernicious influence of marijuana and I knew even then that this would be the right thing to do. I packed my suitcase. I figured out what necessities would fit in my truck – the rest went right down to the Sally Ann. (Okay, I left the rice cooker for Margaret.) This done, I donned my leather jacket and black sunglasses, and said my goodbyes.
Daniel and Margaret shook their heads at me. “Dude,” they said. “Don’t you think this is a bit rash? What about your job at Carlton Cards?”
“Nuts to Carlton Cards. I’m sending my own greetings from now on.”
“But why can’t you stay here until we can leave too?”
I adjusted my sunglasses. “Because this is coyote country.” And I left. My truck pointed due west and I headed, quite literally, into the sunset.
But Vancouver is a hard and huge place, not like in the movies. Employment was scarce. Rent was cruel. The hippies looked upon me with disdain.
After not long enough, I was forced to call my Lethbridge posse. “Hey, guys. Can I crash on your couch?”
I could.
We were somewhere around the Mac’s across the street from the schoolyard when the drugs began to take hold.
We’d graduated three months ago – Daniel, Margaret, and I – and we’d quickly come to the realisation that not only were there no incredible wow jobs waiting for us when we got our diplomas in our hot little hands, but that we were stuck. In Lethbridge. Land of a few tortured trees and weather that couldn’t stay consistent from one hour to the next. So we did what we had to do. Take some shitty ass job to pay the bills until such a time as we could escape and smoke pot. Lots of pot.
But as we meandered our way across the crosswalk, honked at by asshole drivers, a light went off in my brain.
It didn’t have to be like this.
We could go, all of us. And it wouldn’t have to be to Calgary.
I reached into my bag of chips. Good ideas required lots of sustenance.
“So hey, guys,” I said, once I had swallowed and we were safely onto the opposite sidewalk. “What if… what if… we can get out of here, y’know?”
Margaret giggled. A shrill sound, but she couldn’t help it. “Yeah, and do what? We could go to Vancouver and, I don’t know, work another shitty job. And pay twice as much for rent.” She giggled again. “Yeah, that would be awesome.”
Daniel slapped my back in sympathy. I think he meant it to be a pat, but, well, that’s Daniel for you. “We’d all like to go, man –“
“Lady. Boobs.”
“Lady, but we’re, like, adults now. We’ve got responsibilities and shit. We just can’t go flying out of here like nobody’s business.”
But I knew it didn’t have to be like this. And I would prove it to them.
The next morning, I was free of the pernicious influence of marijuana and I knew even then that this would be the right thing to do. I packed my suitcase. I figured out what necessities would fit in my truck – the rest went right down to the Sally Ann. (Okay, I left the rice cooker for Margaret.) This done, I donned my leather jacket and black sunglasses, and said my goodbyes.
Daniel and Margaret shook their heads at me. “Dude,” they said. “Don’t you think this is a bit rash? What about your job at Carlton Cards?”
“Nuts to Carlton Cards. I’m sending my own greetings from now on.”
“But why can’t you stay here until we can leave too?”
I adjusted my sunglasses. “Because this is coyote country.” And I left. My truck pointed due west and I headed, quite literally, into the sunset.
But Vancouver is a hard and huge place, not like in the movies. Employment was scarce. Rent was cruel. The hippies looked upon me with disdain.
After not long enough, I was forced to call my Lethbridge posse. “Hey, guys. Can I crash on your couch?”
I could.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
50 Word Short Story #1
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived by a mountain many fine and happy people. Then they all died horribly in an avalanche. They were very upset about this, but there was nothing they could do about it because, as previously mentioned, they were dead.
THE END
THE END
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The 5 most controversial war kittens of all time
Last one inspired by Linkbait this night. 'War kittens' are from the mind of a Chris.
1. Fluffy McStubbingtons, who famously refused to aid Caesar in conquering the Celts in order to focus on what he saw as the greater menace: a long string of yarn. Caesar opted not to punish the kitten on account of its wee little paws.
2. Lord Tobius, hailed by some as Sun Tzu reborn. But many find it difficult to perceive the visual difference between biding one’s time for strategic reasons and a simple desire to lie in a sunbeam all day.
3. Freya, the Norse goddess of fertility and war, was known to be accompanied by many assorted cats and to be the one who chose the slain of the battlefield to make merry in Valhalla. Some scholars theorise that her cats may have assisted her in this role; others, of a more traditional ilk argue that the cats merely lay on the chests of the slain, purring and awaiting pettage.
4. Harold Godwinson, the very temporary king of England, was ever accompanied by the noble Bojangles – so much so that the feline rode on his steed during the Battle of Hastings. Which begs the question: did the arrow that lodged itself in Harold’s eye really originate with a Norman bow, or was it a political statement by Bojangles? The two were known to argue frequently over whether Bojangles was allowed to recline on the back of the throne.
5. As dogs were to Hitler, so cats were to Stalin. The crazed dictator was so fond of a tabby named Lenny that he made him his premier military advisor after sending the rest of his generals to Siberia for having murder in their hearts. But Lenny disappeared just prior to the implementation of Operation Barbarossa. Did he defect to Germany? Or was he forced to go on the lam after stumbling across starving former peasantry?
1. Fluffy McStubbingtons, who famously refused to aid Caesar in conquering the Celts in order to focus on what he saw as the greater menace: a long string of yarn. Caesar opted not to punish the kitten on account of its wee little paws.
2. Lord Tobius, hailed by some as Sun Tzu reborn. But many find it difficult to perceive the visual difference between biding one’s time for strategic reasons and a simple desire to lie in a sunbeam all day.
3. Freya, the Norse goddess of fertility and war, was known to be accompanied by many assorted cats and to be the one who chose the slain of the battlefield to make merry in Valhalla. Some scholars theorise that her cats may have assisted her in this role; others, of a more traditional ilk argue that the cats merely lay on the chests of the slain, purring and awaiting pettage.
4. Harold Godwinson, the very temporary king of England, was ever accompanied by the noble Bojangles – so much so that the feline rode on his steed during the Battle of Hastings. Which begs the question: did the arrow that lodged itself in Harold’s eye really originate with a Norman bow, or was it a political statement by Bojangles? The two were known to argue frequently over whether Bojangles was allowed to recline on the back of the throne.
5. As dogs were to Hitler, so cats were to Stalin. The crazed dictator was so fond of a tabby named Lenny that he made him his premier military advisor after sending the rest of his generals to Siberia for having murder in their hearts. But Lenny disappeared just prior to the implementation of Operation Barbarossa. Did he defect to Germany? Or was he forced to go on the lam after stumbling across starving former peasantry?
5 life lessons learned from somewhat apologetic buccaneers
Again, Linkbait. 'Somewhat apologetic buccaneers' courtesy of Isaac.
1. The time to apologise is not when you are already at the gallows. The crowd is very excited to see you die horribly and are unlikely to let you off with a heartfelt “My bad.”
2. Again, timing is everything. An apology after you have awakened an evil god from its slumber by means of filching accursed treasure from indigenous peoples does little to bring back their dear, departed, devoured grandfather.
3. The success rate of apologies is strongly correlated to how recent one’s last wash-up was conducted. Filthy, sweaty stink has never endeared anyone to anything.
4. An apologetic air must be balanced with an appropriate level of rogueishness. Charm the pants off them and they might even forgive you for the grandfather thing.
5. Even still, “My bad,” seldom cuts it when returning to the governor his daughter, now suspiciously round in the middle. You may be expected to make amends in a more permanent fashion.
1. The time to apologise is not when you are already at the gallows. The crowd is very excited to see you die horribly and are unlikely to let you off with a heartfelt “My bad.”
2. Again, timing is everything. An apology after you have awakened an evil god from its slumber by means of filching accursed treasure from indigenous peoples does little to bring back their dear, departed, devoured grandfather.
3. The success rate of apologies is strongly correlated to how recent one’s last wash-up was conducted. Filthy, sweaty stink has never endeared anyone to anything.
4. An apologetic air must be balanced with an appropriate level of rogueishness. Charm the pants off them and they might even forgive you for the grandfather thing.
5. Even still, “My bad,” seldom cuts it when returning to the governor his daughter, now suspiciously round in the middle. You may be expected to make amends in a more permanent fashion.
5 reasons telemarketer mimes can cause suicidal fantasies
Oh, hey, Linkbait. 'Telemarketer mimes' courtesy of my astonishing Aunt Jenn.
1. Invisible boxes are seldom of use to anyone, except to drunkenly creative frat boys.
2. Holding a telephone conversation is a trying experience, as one is tempted to interpret the silence as just plain rudeness.
3. Unlike regular mimes, they are seldom satisfied with your mere pocket change.
4. A pack of such creatures results in the creation of a mime call centre, which clogs the streets and causes terrible traffic jams.
5. It is difficult for the average citizen to distinguish between a short of breath telemarketer mime and the much more common telemarketer zombie. Such a citizen can be forgiven for thinking that the apocalypse has come and bringing about the inevitable.
1. Invisible boxes are seldom of use to anyone, except to drunkenly creative frat boys.
2. Holding a telephone conversation is a trying experience, as one is tempted to interpret the silence as just plain rudeness.
3. Unlike regular mimes, they are seldom satisfied with your mere pocket change.
4. A pack of such creatures results in the creation of a mime call centre, which clogs the streets and causes terrible traffic jams.
5. It is difficult for the average citizen to distinguish between a short of breath telemarketer mime and the much more common telemarketer zombie. Such a citizen can be forgiven for thinking that the apocalypse has come and bringing about the inevitable.
5 ways pretzels have been involved in political scandals
Inspired by Linkbait, 'pretzels' suggested by Amanda.
1. As we are all aware, pretzels go particularly well with beer – a fact no one was more aware of than John A. Macdonald, first prime minister of Canada. So enamoured was he of the combination that he spent all of his campaign money on it and had to go begging a rail baron for enough funds to go on another bender.
2. Did Catherine de Medici mastermind the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre? Very probably. It is theorised that the Huguenot populations of France had a much readier supply of pretzels than the Catholics, a supply which she wished to secure. Perhaps then her sons would shut up.
3. Anne of Cleves, Henry VIII’s fourth wife, was a well-known proto-German whom Henry though to be ugly. As a good proto-German, Anne was very much fond of a fresh, hot pretzel and would eat them on any occasion, including in the marital bed. The complaint of ugliness was very much a pretext for the couple’s divorce. Henry simply could not stand the crumbs.
4. The Munsinger Affair is known as the sexiest political scandal in Canadian history, for no other such scandal featured Soviet spies seducing innocent young cabinet ministers. But how could the stalwart men of Diefenbaker’s cabinet be taken in so? Simple. The same cutbacks that cost us the Avro Arrow cut deeply into the government’s Pretzel Fund for Starving Orphans. Munsinger claimed that the shortfall could be found within her hotel room. They did it for the orphans.
5. Watergate: caused by a president consumed with lust for power? Or lust for pretzels?
1. As we are all aware, pretzels go particularly well with beer – a fact no one was more aware of than John A. Macdonald, first prime minister of Canada. So enamoured was he of the combination that he spent all of his campaign money on it and had to go begging a rail baron for enough funds to go on another bender.
2. Did Catherine de Medici mastermind the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre? Very probably. It is theorised that the Huguenot populations of France had a much readier supply of pretzels than the Catholics, a supply which she wished to secure. Perhaps then her sons would shut up.
3. Anne of Cleves, Henry VIII’s fourth wife, was a well-known proto-German whom Henry though to be ugly. As a good proto-German, Anne was very much fond of a fresh, hot pretzel and would eat them on any occasion, including in the marital bed. The complaint of ugliness was very much a pretext for the couple’s divorce. Henry simply could not stand the crumbs.
4. The Munsinger Affair is known as the sexiest political scandal in Canadian history, for no other such scandal featured Soviet spies seducing innocent young cabinet ministers. But how could the stalwart men of Diefenbaker’s cabinet be taken in so? Simple. The same cutbacks that cost us the Avro Arrow cut deeply into the government’s Pretzel Fund for Starving Orphans. Munsinger claimed that the shortfall could be found within her hotel room. They did it for the orphans.
5. Watergate: caused by a president consumed with lust for power? Or lust for pretzels?
5 ways people have gotten rich exploiting tardy reverends
Inspired by Linkbait, 'tardy reverends' suggested by the lovely Karla.
1. In 1932, Mrs. Haversworth took advantage of Reverend Nolan’s late arrival by passing out the collection plate early. By the time he arrived, glasses askew, the collection plate had already passed around with Mrs. Haversworth pocketing the proceeds.
2. Knowing her reverend husband’s tardy tendencies, Linda Ives set up an elaborate insurance scam involving arson, a roll of duct tape, and Reverend Ives’ consistently late homecomings after Sunday service. Miraculously, the insurance company did not catch onto her scheme in a timely fashion. She is alive and well in Rio.
3. Do you have any conception as to how much a well-done and sizable stained glass window is worth? Did you know that with teamwork and a reverend eating his bagel at ten o’clock can equal a killing earned on the antique circuit? So Mr. Freely discovered, to his fortune.
4. Prohibition was a time for creativity and enterprise, especially as represented by a church well-stocked in sacramental wine and a reverend who could be persuaded to ‘forget’ to make a run to the grocery in exchange for some crisp dollar bills. The roof does not replace itself, you know.
5. Jesus, perhaps the original reverend, was most displeased when he returned from the dead two days behind schedule to discover that Mary Magdalene had converted his old carpentry workshop into a busy tourist trap.
1. In 1932, Mrs. Haversworth took advantage of Reverend Nolan’s late arrival by passing out the collection plate early. By the time he arrived, glasses askew, the collection plate had already passed around with Mrs. Haversworth pocketing the proceeds.
2. Knowing her reverend husband’s tardy tendencies, Linda Ives set up an elaborate insurance scam involving arson, a roll of duct tape, and Reverend Ives’ consistently late homecomings after Sunday service. Miraculously, the insurance company did not catch onto her scheme in a timely fashion. She is alive and well in Rio.
3. Do you have any conception as to how much a well-done and sizable stained glass window is worth? Did you know that with teamwork and a reverend eating his bagel at ten o’clock can equal a killing earned on the antique circuit? So Mr. Freely discovered, to his fortune.
4. Prohibition was a time for creativity and enterprise, especially as represented by a church well-stocked in sacramental wine and a reverend who could be persuaded to ‘forget’ to make a run to the grocery in exchange for some crisp dollar bills. The roof does not replace itself, you know.
5. Jesus, perhaps the original reverend, was most displeased when he returned from the dead two days behind schedule to discover that Mary Magdalene had converted his old carpentry workshop into a busy tourist trap.
5 crazy ways that killer penguins are infiltrating pop culture
Inspired by Linkbait, 'killer penguins' suggested by my mother.
1. James Cameron’s Avatar: unsubtle metaphor about an indigenous people defending itself against imperialistic outsiders with the aid of a heroic member of said outsiders? Or devilishly subtle metaphor about Antarctic explorers and what the penguins did to them?
2. Vincent, the loyal canine of Lost fame, was originally meant to be a penguin until said penguin viciously gored the original actor portraying Jack Shepherd.
3. The pet rock craze originated when a penguin by the name of Exeter opted to replace her egg with a rock due to its greater potential for the culling of humans.
4. That same Exeter went on to influence pop culture in another way – by whispering secrets into George Lucas’ ear as he slumbered. That is why there is C-3P0.
5. Exeter’s cousin, Lucille, was known to lurk the sets of the Star Wars prequel trilogy, being lured by the chemistry between Hayden Christensen and Natalie Portman. This chemistry was killed dead when the two thespians had to contend with a penguin staring, staring at them with murder in her eyes.
1. James Cameron’s Avatar: unsubtle metaphor about an indigenous people defending itself against imperialistic outsiders with the aid of a heroic member of said outsiders? Or devilishly subtle metaphor about Antarctic explorers and what the penguins did to them?
2. Vincent, the loyal canine of Lost fame, was originally meant to be a penguin until said penguin viciously gored the original actor portraying Jack Shepherd.
3. The pet rock craze originated when a penguin by the name of Exeter opted to replace her egg with a rock due to its greater potential for the culling of humans.
4. That same Exeter went on to influence pop culture in another way – by whispering secrets into George Lucas’ ear as he slumbered. That is why there is C-3P0.
5. Exeter’s cousin, Lucille, was known to lurk the sets of the Star Wars prequel trilogy, being lured by the chemistry between Hayden Christensen and Natalie Portman. This chemistry was killed dead when the two thespians had to contend with a penguin staring, staring at them with murder in her eyes.
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