Short Stories
 

Write a short story. No rules.

c'mon.

One day this guy saw a dog in his yard. He chased it off with a stick, but later he regretted it.

thanks. i feel better now

The dog came back later with some buddies and, well, they ate the dude.

Random idea.

Someone write a paragraph. Then someone else writes the next paragraph. Hopefully each paragraph would flow at least somewhat. Each writer has a lot of flexibility in what he/she writes. They could embellish the prior paragraph, move on, end the story, continue an "ended story" or whatever. With this group, I bet a really cool story would develop.

Could be interesting.

One day I was browsing a message board, and I saw a creative writing section where there was an idea posted about writing a story, paragraph by paragraph. Each user would contribute a different paragraph. I thought this might be interesting, so I decided to write the first paragraph.

But try as I might, nothing would come to me. Not a single plotline, not even a paragraph. I decided that a walk to get some fresh air might help clear my head a little, perhaps inspire me.

It was a lovely spring day for a walk. Party sunny, 69 degrees. I was glad that the weather had finally turned for the better. No more snow and cold; the days would be getting longer and warmer. I walked along at a brisk clip, breathing in deep the springtime air. In the distance, I could see the neighborhood park. I decided that once I reached it, I would sit for a while and let my mind wander, and perhaps gain some inspiration.

Finding a bench near a pond in the park I decided to sit down. In the distance I could here children playing and a dog barking. Breathing deeply of the fresh spring air I began turning ideas over in my head again. Inspiration couldn't be too far away.

That's when I heard the squishing sound getting closer behind me. I was afraid to turn and look, so I sat and waited hoping it would pass me by. It got louder and louder, the squishing more pronounced and defined as it grew nearer. There were mini-squishes inside the main squishing sound. The sound stopped directly behind me. Suddenly, I noticed that I smelled fish. It was getting stronger now, and almost overpowering at this point. I had to turn and see what it was, but I couldn't. So I stepped away from the bench and stood up in one smooth motion. I whirled, and faced it.

With an incantation to Yog-Sothoth on the tip of my tongue just waiting to be invoked, I look at what is behind me. I see the wonderful park with trees budding, grass growing, squirrels collecting nuts, and nuts collecting squirrels. Hmmmm. Looking down, I almost jump when I see right next to me a five year old licking a lollypop. He is wearing waist high rubber boots covered in mud.

"Mister, have you seen my pet clam?" The child's eyes welled up. "His name is Tim and I left him on this bench." Having never eaten a pet before, I was unsure of my next move.

She told me her name was Tammy and it was certainly a she, I thought to myself. This young lad was obviously confused, probably a victim of some new age communist indoctrination center. There wasn't time to save his mind from the horrors of leftist propaganda, so I just gave him an abstract gem to think about. "Well young fella, let this be a lesson in life for you.....if you're gonna be trudging around in the mud licking lollypops, some stranger is likely to eat your favorite clam."

"But hey, I'll tell you what," I said. Here, the kid's eyebrow cocked, as if he already sensed my intentions. "If you write me a 500-word essay on the Freudian implications of a young boy with gender issues sucking on lollipops while hunting for clams, I'll help you find your pet."

"300."

"500, but you can count the bibliography."

"Done."

The child turned to go, trailing chunks of semi-dried muck behind him. Then he paused, glancing back at me shyly, as if unsure of himself.

"Hey mister?"

I nodded, stifling my impatience.

"Don't forget to lock up tonight. Some clams don't want to be caught." He grinned menacingly and tossed the lollipop over his shoulder.

With my lunch break over, I go back to my job of History Revisionist (second class) at the government office next to the park. While fighting back utter boredom, I spend the afternoon creating several fictitious sources that all describe atrocities done by the rioting workers in Boston. This would support the harsh clamp-down that the military is planning for tomorrow. I leave work unusually happy, it must be the nice weather.

The elevator glides down with the last of our office staff and the doors open and close at each floor. With each stop, more Haliburton lobbyists pack into the small space, each glowing with content from the weeks progress of destroying the third world for Bush's oil fortune.

The thought of rioting workers being herded, beaten and shot by the military consumes me as I imagine the violent scenes in my mind. Hey, I like to imagine middle easterners slaughtered for oil as much as the next guy, but the unions suck ass.....and they are right here in the US.

"Fuckin' wicked bastuds" I say outloud accidently. The other passengers seem to read my thoughts......see the exact same images as they look at me and nod in agreement. Each of us are enjoying our own mental movie of carnage and I cant help thinking about how very much we all owe Jeb.

The elevator doors open at the ground floor and the people spill out into the lobby.

Flowing through the throng, I mused on how many other times and places I had available to me to be ragingly political, and decided that there were times it was better to just relax and have some fun. So I headed off to the amusement theme park by the Boardwalk--hey, maybe I'd find the clam on the roller coaster, right? Had to give it a try or I'd never know.

Waiting impatiently in line for the roller coaster, I wondered where could it be. How could a clam go unnoticed, with all these people milling about. Then it struck me like a failed NASA project, out of the blue. A disguise, it was wearing a disguise! Now I knew, I was searching for a.......bearded clam.

This was not the first time I found myself searching for the ever elusive bearded clam, but this was a whole new angle. I felt a twinge of hunger, brought on by the fabulous smell wafting out of a little country cooking stand next to the rollercoaster. As I had no real good leads to go on, I decided to think on it over a nice warm plate of biscuits and gravy.

About half way through my biscuits, I found a hair. A short bristly hair. I called my waitress over to complain. She took one look at the hair, and shreiked," Harry, there's a whisker in this guy's biscuits!"

The irony struck me. I had been looking for a bearded clam, but all I had found was a whisker biscuit. What was next? A hair pie? Disgusted, I turned to leave, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw it.

An old man in red suspenders, going by at like 100 mph on a moped. So I'm like dude, wtf? You ran over my clam! But it was too late, he was headed for the overpass.

Clod,

you have now officially redeemed your existence.:haha:

Slang,

this should be your user title

I pushed through the throng of people massed around what was left of the bearded clam. Somehow, he was still alive, though how, I can't say. I pushed aside the whiskers and leaned in close to listen.

you have now officially redeemed your existence

I had no idea my existence was unredeemed... does that mean now I've used up all my coupons?

I heard him gasp his final words. It was faint, and there was a lot of noise and confusion, but i heard, "eat me " quite clearly.

I gently scooped up the bearded clam and held it to my sob heaving breast. The tears welling up in my eyes, I was gazing helplessly down at the dead bearded clam, when I heard a voice say “Give me the clam”. Too numb to question, I handed the bearded clam to the voice and as he whisper to the shell, I recognized the voices owner. It was the Mayor, who owns this park and half the town. Suddenly, the bearded clam stirred, then spoke, it was alive!
It never ceases to amaze me how wealth, can revive a dead clam.

I heaved a great sigh of relief. Now. Where the hell is that kid?

The kid, unable to quell the unrest at the union hall, vomited in a lavender VW microbus. Politics, tequila, and clam digging while not a lethal mix, str [tryyu jstf pm vst[ryomh/

Damn, Griff. That looks like the spam I get.:(

str [tryyu jstf pm vst[ryomh/ = are pretty hard on carpeting. :) An irate hipster grew angry when he realized his box of cellar gear was in the splash zone. "Kid" he says "kid..."

Kid...You don't tug on Superman's cape,
and you don't spit into the wind.
You don't pull the mask from the old Lone Ranger,
and you don't splash on the t-shirts from Jim.

The kid, now revealed as the young Jim Croce, decides its time to contact smoothmoniker for some career advice. But where to find the smooth one?

Somewhere, far off in a distant land, Smoothmoniker suddenly sits bolt upright in bed, struck by a powerful psychic wave. The teenage prostitue who had been passed out across his chest fell to the floor, but continued snoring without a break.

"Someone needs me!", he shouted, and reached for the phone.

*4* *1* *1*

"Hello, what city please?"

"SOMEONE NEEDS MY HELP, WHO IS IT?"

"What city please?"

"I SAID, SOMEONE IS CALLING ME, CAN YOU TELL ME WHO IT IS"

"Sir, is this some kind of joke?"

Smoothmoniker's bed partner rolls over and mumbles that he should stop shouting.

Suddenly, a second psychic wave hits Smoothmoniker, and he becomes aware of who is in trouble. He quickly dons his spandex costume, and takes a running leap at the open window.

He had gotten quite good at leaping out windows, he realized. He sailed effortlessly through the window, not touching any of the sides, clearing even this smaller window in his new place that he had just moved to on the 24th floor, after having lived in his mom's garage. He realized all at once, but too late, that he had just moved to a 24th floor apartment after having lived on ground level in his mom's garage.

He had yet to sort out the dramtic exit through the open window reflex bit. As he realized this, he began to lose altitude, and start his descent. Time expanded, slowing, details became pronounced, and he reached for his belt.

Bulwer-Lytton meets Orwell & Brown
 

It was a dark and stormy night, and the clock had just struck thirteen, when the last man on earth heard a knock at the door.

It being 4:30 and time being relative, sm cooly draws a nickel bag from his utility belt and rolls a lovely fatty. Torch of freedom dangling from his lip, our hero gives quiet thanks to Bruce Gordon and fires his grappling hook across the street to the poolside bar of one T. S. Undertoad.

Edit: Erm, I guess that I missed the clock.

Meanwhile, in an alternate dimension untouched by Griff...

Just outside the 23rd floor, smoothmoniker fastened his belt. Then, in part because his arms were flailing and in part because he was expelling the pressured air from his lungs in a skyward direction, but mostly because of gravity, smoothmoniker descended very rapidly.

Near the 22nd story, our smooth super hero's left arm contracted very rapidly. Smoothmoniker swayed to and fro for a moment, but quickly stabilized, dangling from an arm in a long black sleeve. The arm was, of course, attached to a woman who clung to a silver string with the other hand.

In the shadow of a large black helicopter, the woman's wolfish eyes narrowed sharply.

just more proof that every decision creates an alternate universe
 

Slang parks a 1986 Econoline van in the ajoining alley. 20,000 fully trained, heavily armed, jackbooted, field mice breath as one, waiting for their master to free them on an unsuspecting city.

Suddenly, a psychic wave strikes 20,000 field mice en masse, a horrifying image of a captive rodent held at Fort Slang before meeting an unspeakable demise.

As one, the Mouseketroopers turn on Slang, with fire in their eyes...

The mysterious woman sights carefully, letting the downdraft of the chopper blades swing her this way and that.

"Ahhhh, just so," she says breathily as she opens her gloved hand, releasing Smoothmoniker.

He pauses a moment in the air, like Wile E. Coyote recalling the laws of gravity, and plummets toward the alleyway below.

He has moments only to reflect upon the many varieties of fire escape decor, when he hits the roof of the 1986 Ford Econoline van, bounces and in a credible swan dive, lands a squarely upon the menacing mouse military massed below.

ok, i'm lost. can we start over?

Lumberjim turns the street corner holding a map upside down. He mumbles to himself something about being lost. Bloody mouse guts spray all over him.

Momentarily freed from life's troubles, in this case finding a decent cheese steak, Jim takes the opportunity to do a short Fred Astair number splashing through the puddles of gore and swinging on a lamppost like a man lost in love.

Smoothmoniker lumbers up off his cushion of mice, dusting himself off, and only a little the worse for wear. Whoa, that was lucky, he thought to himself. Then he sees slang, who is slackjawed, but nonetheless thrilled that his mouseketeer army is no longer about to attack him.

They shake hands, grinning at their coincidental symbiosis, and say simultaneously, "I owe ya one."

Smoothmoniker then follows with, "Slang, there's a kid named Jim Croce far off who needs my help with his career, but what he doesn't know is that success is waiting at his doorstep--someone has found his lost bearded clam, and that clam is a singing, dancing wonder that will take the world by storm, if only he can be reunited with the person who found it. You have to help me."

During this long exposition, Lumberjim had ceased his gut-covered frolicking to listen, being, as he was, very partial to long expositions. "Can I come too?" he asked shyly.

"YES! Yes, that's perfect. You will both come with me, to help me reunite the young boy with the clam. But FIRST... first there's something far more important."

"What's that?" asked slang, leery of important things when it was, after all, his day off.

"We need to eat at this fine pub here, which belongs to T.S. Undertoad. He's a good buddy of mine--LJ, I bet he'd give you a good deal on a cheesesteak."

So arm in arm, like Dorothy's crew on their way to meet the wizard (but before they'd met the lion,) the three of them skipped into the pub together.

This is a happy ending. Maybe NOW we can start over, as soon as LJ, SM and Slang get cleaned up and finish their meals.

With the "Lolipop Guild" blaring on the PA system, and the green strobe light a-flashing, our three heroes are greeted personally by Mr T.S.Undertoad. Finding a premium table for his VIP guests, he offers the special:

Deep fried Filet of Whale penis served in beer batter.

The End

Pay no attention to the <strike>frog</strike> toad behind the counter.


edit:change of amphibian

So much for the happy ending.

Who the hell ever heard of a Philly CheeseWhalePenis sandwich?

Oh, oh....that's it. Get a "lunch cart" and sell Philly CheeseWhalePenis sandwiches and Cellar Tee shirts to the tourists.:D

As our intrepid heros enter the pub, a night of revellry ahead of them, they fail to notice a movement in the shadows of the darkend alley across the street. It's a shame they didn't see it, for if they did, what would they have found?

None other than the teenage prostitue Smoothmoniker wore out earlier in the night. It would have been strange enough to find this girl in the alley, as she was only doing a favor for the madam, but being as her hands and feet were bound by strips of duct tape, it was to be her last good deed.

And she was not alone.

Standing behind her, with a hand wrapped firmly around her mouth to keep her quiet, stood a figure over six feet tall, and as broad as an oak door. He leaned forward, and whispered in her ear. She cringed as he spoke, his voice as cold as a grave.

"I'm not a butcher,
I'm not a Yid,
Nor yet a foreign skipper,
But your own light-hearted friend,
Yours truly,
Jack The Ripper."

Her eyes went wide when she saw the Liston knife, but it was too late for her. The razor sharp blade sliced thru her neck, severing her jugular and carotid arteries in the time it took for the killer to draw his breath as he admired his handiwork.

The lifeless body fell away from a head held aloft by its hair. The psycho slowly lifted the dead girls face to his own, stared into the blank eyes, then slowly, lovingly, kissed the cooling lips.

Placing the head into a canvas bag, the killer stood and stared at our three adventurers thru the front window of the pub, his eyes slowly scanning them, gauging them for battle.

"Where are the rites of passage? The initiations for the young to endure? How can they ever hope to become true adults without them? We live in a world filled with people wearing middle-aged bodies, yet they stumble to a crawl with their child-like minds. We must all go thru a rite of passage, and it must be physical, and it must be painful, and it MUST leave a mark."

The figure started across the street, waterproof canvas bag in hand. Upon entering the pub, he approached the three he had followed to this ancient mystical site. 'Only three more and Xibalba will open, and I can return home.' the voice in his head whispered.

He placed the bag on the snaphook hanging from his belt, and know the game was about to begin.

"Friends, the city has a new terror running free on its streets, and we need you to find it and stop it."

-----------------------------------

Here's to hoping that the story will run long and strong.
For those who may not know, "XIBALBA" means "the gates of Hell".

SM glances up at the TV positioned at a precarious angle over the bar and watches this snippet of the LA nightly news with a disgruntled look on his face. "Jeez!" he exclaims aloud to his companions, "The least they could do is get a decent sound track for the nightly display of this city's atrocities!" He beckons the bar maid over for a fifth hit of Jose Cuervo which he drinks neat, finishing off the shot glass in a single smooth gulp. Meanwhile, out on the dance floor, a red head is doing gyrations to the latest hit song from the California Classical Guitar Quartet. A sleek Welsh Corgi enters the pub unnoticed and watches the redhead and SM with knowing green eyes.

Hi All - This is my dive into the cellar - Please be gentle with me :blush:


The three companions watched the undulations of the red head with varying degrees of interest. LJ smirked, whale penis grease dribbling from the corner of his mouth – Yeah I’d hit it, he thought. SM yawned and tugged at the lycra of his suit, suddenly noticing the snugness.

At the other end of the room, TS hunkered down low at one end of the bar – his elbows resting on the worn oak as he silently perused the evening’s gathering of diners. Not a bad crowd for a weeknight – he mused. A slightly acidic odor from the freshly grilled whale penis (the house specialty) hung heavily in the damp evening air.

He breathed deeply taking in the full sensory experience of the place. After all these years, he was still amazed by its popularity. It was hard to believe that something that had started out as a simple hobby – a diversion from his daily routine – had turned into such a fixture for so many. The place had practically become a haven for the politically disenfranchised.

Still there was something about it. There was a sort of “homey” feel. Well more like “under the home” – with the combination of smells, flying opinions and a few dark, unexplored corners he was reminded more of his cellar; a little scary maybe – but somehow fascinating and perpetually enticing.

It beckoned all to come in – sit down – have some WP (whale penis) and discuss whatever they wanted over a nice cup of coffee (except – for some odd reason there was NEVER any coffee)

He sighed and stood up straight – rubbing his broad hands over his face. The scent of her still lingered on his fingers. His mind flashed back to less than an hour ago. Legs entwined, flesh against flesh – the softness of her as she eagerly rose to accept him. He could still feel the intense pleasure of her mouth as she…

Abruptly, he was jerked back to the present. His toady senses told him something was suddenly, amazingly wrong. A dense black tension had settled in. He felt the presence of evil. Swinging his head sharply around – TS saw him – the stranger sitting quietly back in the corner. The dark man looked at him and offered a small, barely perceptible grin of recognition. TS tensed, his hands gripped into fists (His fingers instinctively touching the sharp razor blades he recently had embedded in his thumbs)

The evil one smiled broadly and stood – reaching for something under his long black coat. TS narrowed his eyes to slits, whispering “Game On”.

As Jack drew his Liston Knife, the hooked blade glinting in the candlelight, TS dove to the side, rolling through a table and upending all of the dishes. The people that sat there fell off their chairs backwards, landing akimbo amongst the wreckage. TS stood. Jack's face was shocked. Dangling from TS's still protruding tongue, was the Knife. As LJ, SM, and Slang converged upon the now horrified ripper, the girl, Jacquelita, whos table had been upended could be heard to whisper,"hey, toady, that's a pretty cool tongue trick ya got there......know any others?"

"Yea, a few". acknowledged our hero. Another toady sense was coming to life.Could it be that "Jack the Ripper" was about to become involved with
"Jackqulita the Stripper"? What a couple! Our hero found himself being whisked into another world of dream and conjecture. Could this be what had always been missing in his life? He allowed himself only the briefest of repose in this altered state. More important things were pressing just now. He'd explore this chance meeting in more depth later.

(OK, I'll try again...) Jack took advantage of TS's momentary lapse of attention caused by our hero's lavicious thoughts directed toward the luscious Jackquelita. The Ripper's knife was in mere microns from TS's throat when suddenly the villan fell to the floor and fell hard! The Corgi had taken advantage of the fact that no one had noticed him due to his diminutative stature and seized the opportunity to seize the Ripper's leg with his extremely sharp teeth. Jack shreiked with pain and confusion. How could TS have severed the tendons of the Ripper's ankle with a knife on his TONGUE? The crowd converged on the flailing heap of arms and legs and paws and teeth presented by Jack and the Corgi, but somehow in the confusion Jack managed to hop to his one remaining good foot and pogo out the the pub into the L.A. night. Jackquelita stared at TS in admiration. "That was wonderful!" she exclaimed to TS in a sexy, "whiskey" voice. "How did you do that?"

"Ah, shucks, ma'am. Warn't nothing!" replied TS. "Hey! No dogs allowed!" he added, as he caught sight of the Corgi panting beside Jackquelita's table. The Corgi stared at Jackquelita with lust in its eye. "Too bad she's the wrong species," the Corgi thought. The red head who had been gyrating on the dance floor moments before seemed to read the Corgi's mind and laughed out loud. Suddenly, the attention of all within the pub was diverted by the loud screams of LJ, just outside that establishment's door...

Taking big steps, and walking in a brisk manner, Smooth made it to the door first. Poking his head out, taking note of LJ on one knee there in the wan pool of light guttering from the gas flame streetlamp, Smooth thought, 'Man, I wish I had my camera. That's such a poignant scene.' But said, "Yo. Dumbass. What the hell are you screaming about, and how in the hell did you get outside so quickly?"

"I don;t know." Lj said, swatting idly at the apostropholons buzzing around his head. "I had this vision of myself as though from a short distance. I had found a sheaf of papers here on the sidewalk, and as I read it, I watched my own head explode. ANd then Slang came out and did the same damn thing! It was so real. I could swear it happened. It's as if someone has erased some of my memory, and i've relived the moment twice. I can feel tha pain of my eyes bulging. I think I know what those papers say."

Smooth took a step back, and cocked his head. Stepping forward again, he took the surprised LJ's head in his hands, stared deeply into his eyes and said,"That's the demon talking. You need healin, boy. " And gripping LJ's ample forehead in one iron strong hand, he rocked his head back and forth a time or two, and then shoved him over, intoning, "YOU ARE HEALED!!"

Rising from the puddle of questionable liquid that sm had plunged him into as he "healed" him, the ire plain upon his rugged brow, LJ said, "Dude. I asked you to stop doing that. That's the third time you've healed me this week, and it's getting a little old, alright?" And picking his nose, he wiped a booger on sm's lapel. "Don;t worry about me, I'm fine. I;ll find those papers. I'll prove that I;m not crazy!" Apostropholons pursued him back into the bar, biting his red leathery neck as he swatted them angrily.

Once back inside, he ordered a drink and some ointment. He ate the ointment and poured the strong liquid over the bites. Apostopholons screamed in anguish as they made a hasty retreat from the massive neck. most left their designer biting instruments behind. Now where could he have left the papers? Ahh, perhaps another "healing session" might be in order. Perhaps if he cleared his mind for the process and passed the hat, he'd be able to focus a little better. "Alright now, who needs purification?" The room went silent.
A noise caught his attention to his far left. It was Jackqulita. "Why, I think I might be able to use a little of that," quipped the stripper.