I wrote this a couple years ago (time flies), and forgot about it until something someone said reminded me.
It's drenched in scifi references for an obscure online game, so a bit might be hard to understand, but hopefully you get the gist.
_________________________________________________________
So I'm at the Brothel with Travis and we're having trouble getting in. Something about tracking blood on the rug, I wasn't really paying attention.
It had been a long night camping that belt. On my honor, we lost about seventeen battleships to that Demon From Hell in a Prophecy. It was weird, everytime a new ship warped in to assist me and Travis, that damned ship would only target them. He left us alone like we were dirt. Like we were scum.
Hence why we are the brothel. We needed to unwind and get our head screwed on straight. Along with some other parts...
Travis started distracting the madame with some isk as I snuck by to get to the auction room.
I was so anxious to get some, it had been a while, that I almost forgot to clean myself off. I slipped into a restroom and went to the sink to wipe off all the blood from the Docking Blood Ritual and put the warm entrails in a cargo pocket. I will never understand women. A little blood, a few innards and they FA-REEK out! Chicks man....
I entered the auction room and there were about one hundred and eighty of the hottest chicks I have ever seen in Delve. Blondes, brunettes, and thankfully no Minmatar to wreck the effect.
It reminded me of a joke old Lt Blorg once told me. He was about fourteen and he wanted a pet so he asked his Blood Spawner for 3 isk to buy a Khanid pig. His Blood Spawner says here's 4 isk, go get yourself a Minmatar whore. Ah Blorg, I will always remember you. The way you burped after every Blood Ritual, the way you could tell a newb warped into an asteroid belt, the way you screamed as your ship was torn assunder. Good times....
I picked out a really nice Caldari whore and we moved off down the hallway toward a luxury room. Well, as luxurious as I could afford on a Blood Raider Lt pay anyways.
She started to undress and I tore off my clothes so quickly, an eyeball fell out of my pocket and slowly rolled towards her. Her dress was over her head so she didn't notice it so I leaped awkwardly with my flightsuit still tangled around my ankles and landed next to it, covering the precious eyeball with my toes.
There was a pounding on the door and it sounded like Travis yelling about danger. But I came prepared. I had a half dozen flightsuits for my little pilot and I was ready for any errant disease this Caldari whore undoubtedly had.
Then the pros turned to me and realizing I was standing so close, pushed me back onto the bed. My left big toe flicked the succulent eyeball and it wobbled quickly under a table out of sight of the assuredly "I'm-uneasy-with-the-sight-of-blood" tramp.
There was some more banging on the door and it sounded like Travis was getting more urgent. Maybe he was being kicked out? Something about a lock? Of course the door was locked, I had paid for my 15 minutes of heaven and I was planning on using at least 4 of them.
I tried to block him out and the pros turned on a soundbox, recieving music from somewhere in the system. All I know is I was happy it wasn't a freakin' Amarrian transmission. Only so much of that chanting shit and it could really drive a sane Bloodspiller nuts.
The pros started out on my little Blood Raider and I was reeling, it felt so good. But then I realized the room was tilting and it was'nt her doing. I heard a yelp through the noise of the soundbox and heard Travis fall outside the room. The pros never stopped. I'll tell ya what, they get a bad rap but them Caldari whores are real professional.
The room violently tilted then and she was thrown off me and onto the floor. The soundbox squawked as it hit the floor and broke, silencing the music and making Travis' shouts clear.
"There's a ship attacking the brothel! He's bombarding it with laser fire! We have just a few minutes to clear out Fleen!"
Frakin' do-gooders! Why can't a den of delights be left in peace?
I figured if we had a few minutes, I'd have time to finish up.
Another explosion could be heard coming from somewhere above us and the room shook and tilted again.
Unfortunately, this dislodged the eyeball I dropped and it rolled right at her face.
Trying to steady herself, she turned her head, saw the eye and screamed.
A series of explosions started to break the brothel.
I quickly prayed to the Blood God, timed my leap and threw myself in the air to land on the pros.
The eyeball rolled right into her mouth.
Her skirt flew up as she bucked.
I plunged down face first into her crotch.
The door burst open and Travis fell in.
I lifted my head and noticed the prostitute had a little pilot of her own down there and I was eye to eye with it.
"Duuude...." Travis sounded queasy.
Then everything went white as, thankfully, the brothel exploded.
Raider Fleen
Blood Raiders of Delve
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Sunday, October 25, 2009
The Fire in Chicago
I wrote this for the Tribune Ghost Story contest. It asked for a 700 word story and after finishing mine, the count was about 972. Spending the next 3 days cutting it down was painful as the story lost alot of descriptions, pacing, well, just about everything.
The soulless entry lies below.
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The Fire in Chicago
At 9pm on Tuesday, October 8th 1996, the building on DeKoven Street burst into flames. In the alley that night Johnny was the first to see it from his bike. He was late for his curfew set by his overprotective, retired Chicago firefighter father. He was also the first to see them.
He smelled the smoke first. It was coming from a house two doors back. He rolled there, watching smoke billow out of the windows and flames shimmer behind the back door.
Suddenly the door ignited and instead of spreading outwards, the flames took the form of a man. Johnny wanted to look around and tell someone in the silent, surreal neighborhood but he was transfixed by the unnatural shape on the door. Surging outwards but not in a way fire is supposed to act, it moved forward, walking step by step across the backyard, dancing like fire but retaining its humanoid shape. Seconds later it was followed by another. They looked like people, marching, moving with a purpose. Soon there were more, moving out from the door and the walls, drifting in multiple directions. Alarmingly some of them straight at Johnny.
He turned his bike again towards home, looked over his shoulder, and saw more of the crackling shapes crossing the alley and sliding into adjacent buildings. As he got to the end of the block, he stopped and tried to breathe. Dozens of them were stalking, floating, filling the alley and spreading outwards. By now at least nine houses were alight and he could hear screams from residents as they ran outside, smoke detectors beeping from their open doorways. He pedaled around the corner, where everything on the next street looked normal at first glance but almost instantly he saw a flicker of light heralding their arrival. They drifted into view, moving through trees, cars and anything else in their way, always in a straight line and igniting everything they touched. If these things kept walking, his house and his father were in their path.
DeKoven Street wasn’t a coincidence he knew, since his father had shared the history of the Chicago Fire with him. That was the street where it had started. Exactly one hundred and twenty five years ago it consumed the city and left the same number of bodies in its wake. A chill went down his spine. Were there that many walking the streets this night? He raced the fire shapes home.
Once there, he jumped off his bike, ghost-riding it, and slammed through the door yelling for his dad. He scrambled through the house as his father came out of the kitchen. Johnny stopped in the hallway and tried to explain everything as his father moved to calm him. But as he approached him, a fire ghost walked out of the wall of the bedroom, crossed the hallway between them and went right into the bathroom wall, leaving both walls ablaze in its wake.
His dad grabbed an extinguisher to spray the walls, mumbling about some illusion of the fire. Johnny said that he saw it too and there were more. His father called 911 then led Johnny out into the street.
As his father banged on doors to people’s houses, Johnny set off car alarms to alert them faster. Then, as Johnny watched, his father pushed past a crying woman, and entered a house already engulfed in flames. Johnny tried to follow but someone in the crowd held him back. In a hush the crowd waited until triumphantly, his father stumbled out carrying a child wrapped in wet blankets. Someone took the child while another caught his father as he fell. Johnny looked on tearfully as his father succumbed to smoke inhalation. He died with a smile on his lips, proud of his son and the good he’d done that night.
The fire ghosts walked four miles on that horrific anniversary before extinguishing themselves. The same distance that the Chicago Fire burned through the Windy City.
Years later, John graduated and walked out of the Chicago Fire Academy. Hearing sirens blocks away, he hoped the next fire he saw would be ghost free.
Except maybe for his father. Watching over him.
The soulless entry lies below.
----------------------------
The Fire in Chicago
At 9pm on Tuesday, October 8th 1996, the building on DeKoven Street burst into flames. In the alley that night Johnny was the first to see it from his bike. He was late for his curfew set by his overprotective, retired Chicago firefighter father. He was also the first to see them.
He smelled the smoke first. It was coming from a house two doors back. He rolled there, watching smoke billow out of the windows and flames shimmer behind the back door.
Suddenly the door ignited and instead of spreading outwards, the flames took the form of a man. Johnny wanted to look around and tell someone in the silent, surreal neighborhood but he was transfixed by the unnatural shape on the door. Surging outwards but not in a way fire is supposed to act, it moved forward, walking step by step across the backyard, dancing like fire but retaining its humanoid shape. Seconds later it was followed by another. They looked like people, marching, moving with a purpose. Soon there were more, moving out from the door and the walls, drifting in multiple directions. Alarmingly some of them straight at Johnny.
He turned his bike again towards home, looked over his shoulder, and saw more of the crackling shapes crossing the alley and sliding into adjacent buildings. As he got to the end of the block, he stopped and tried to breathe. Dozens of them were stalking, floating, filling the alley and spreading outwards. By now at least nine houses were alight and he could hear screams from residents as they ran outside, smoke detectors beeping from their open doorways. He pedaled around the corner, where everything on the next street looked normal at first glance but almost instantly he saw a flicker of light heralding their arrival. They drifted into view, moving through trees, cars and anything else in their way, always in a straight line and igniting everything they touched. If these things kept walking, his house and his father were in their path.
DeKoven Street wasn’t a coincidence he knew, since his father had shared the history of the Chicago Fire with him. That was the street where it had started. Exactly one hundred and twenty five years ago it consumed the city and left the same number of bodies in its wake. A chill went down his spine. Were there that many walking the streets this night? He raced the fire shapes home.
Once there, he jumped off his bike, ghost-riding it, and slammed through the door yelling for his dad. He scrambled through the house as his father came out of the kitchen. Johnny stopped in the hallway and tried to explain everything as his father moved to calm him. But as he approached him, a fire ghost walked out of the wall of the bedroom, crossed the hallway between them and went right into the bathroom wall, leaving both walls ablaze in its wake.
His dad grabbed an extinguisher to spray the walls, mumbling about some illusion of the fire. Johnny said that he saw it too and there were more. His father called 911 then led Johnny out into the street.
As his father banged on doors to people’s houses, Johnny set off car alarms to alert them faster. Then, as Johnny watched, his father pushed past a crying woman, and entered a house already engulfed in flames. Johnny tried to follow but someone in the crowd held him back. In a hush the crowd waited until triumphantly, his father stumbled out carrying a child wrapped in wet blankets. Someone took the child while another caught his father as he fell. Johnny looked on tearfully as his father succumbed to smoke inhalation. He died with a smile on his lips, proud of his son and the good he’d done that night.
The fire ghosts walked four miles on that horrific anniversary before extinguishing themselves. The same distance that the Chicago Fire burned through the Windy City.
Years later, John graduated and walked out of the Chicago Fire Academy. Hearing sirens blocks away, he hoped the next fire he saw would be ghost free.
Except maybe for his father. Watching over him.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Dastard and the Tryouts
My friend Jon gave me the idea to give him a sidekick and reminded me about our friend Darin who had a very odd nickname. Never one to turn away a good idea, I wrote the following.
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Dastard walked across the front of the men standing at attention. They all looked mean and nasty and he was very pleased with himself over this crop. Maybe word was finally getting around that he was the man to work for, the man to get the job done and make them all rich.
“I am looking for some help. I am a demanding boss and am perfect in every way, so I seek perfection from my workers as well.” He measured up the men one at a time and looked over his clipboard.
“Tiger Styles? Is that your real name?” he asked the first one. The lean, cut muscles on the dangerous man rippled as he answered, “Uh, no. They call me that because of my fighting style.”
Dastard looked down the list. “Slugger Louis, Gator Jones. Dickhead. Man Mountain. I guess none of these are your real names?” he said apprehensively. “Pity,” he thought. Those names sounded cool. The giants looked around and smiled. A chorus of no’s and chuckles followed, but after a glare from Dastard they all quieted down. They actually looked a bit scared to him. “Perfect,” he thought.
“Let’s see,” he hummed and tapped the clipboard with a pen, “then there’s Calamity Carl, Moose, Phat Joe, and is this right? Which one of you is Dan Ger?” he looked down the row of monstrous men. At the end of the line, a scrawny arm went up. “Here um, sir,” the guy said in a wavering voice.
Dastard stomped down the row and stopped in front of the unassuming man. He took a deep breath and looked him over from bald head to scruffy combat boots. “This guy is a mess,” Dastard thought. He had a strange, twisted beard that dropped from his pointy chin, beady little eyes and a slanted nervous smile on his face. His clothes were old and dirty and hung loose on his wiry frame.
“Listen Dan,” he started but was cut off. “It’s Dan Ger sir, like danger, get it?” and he stuck out his hand to attempt a handshake, but when Dastard looked down he saw the most hideously sweaty palms he had ever seen. They were actually dripping on the floor! And he had just mopped before the guys arrived.
“Listen Dan,” he tried again, “I might have something for you some other time.” He put his arm around him and ushered him to the door, grabbing the mop on the way. “Why don’t you wait out here and my receptionist will get all your info. “
“Yeah, but,” Dan stuttered as he was shuffled out the door.
Dastard handed him the mop, “Thanks for coming,” he said as he gave him a final nudge and closed the door.
“OK boys, I think I’ve seen enough.” He clapped his gloved hands and rubbed them together then walked back around to the front of them. “I’m not one to jump the gun, but I gotta say you guys are in! Welcome to Dastard’s gang,” he beamed and put his fists on his hips, knowing the effect of his extra long cape resettling around him would give them a dramatic shot.
The entire group of men looked at each other, then as one, started laughing. “What?” Man Mountain said, “this is ridiculous.” Dastard blinked quickly, several times. “I thought this was a tryout for Dr. Robot’s Menace Squad,” Gator Jones said in between snorts of derision.
“My agent told me it was for a bank job for Evil-O,” Moose giggled.
“Wait..” Dastard mumbled as he dropped his arms to his side when the men started walking towards the door.
“But…but..” was all the saddened Dastard could say as they reached the door. “Fo real, yo,” Phat Joe called back, “we out. Peace!” More laughter turned to shouts and guffaws as they reached the door.
Dastard raised his arms and let loose, with both gloves, a massive array or lightning that struck the group and seized their bodies before going out. Most of the men were scattered, sent flying by the electrical charge. A couple, like Calamity Carl, dropped to the floor in convulsions. Maddened and haunted by echoes of laughter in his head, Dastard unleashed another barrage, ignoring the very real threat that the gloves could not take much of this and would most likely malfunction and hurt him as well.
More than one of the un-hired gang made quite a mess as their bodies ruptured under the assault. Dastard was very close to losing complete control and would have surely suffered his own wounds to the dangerous gloves if they hadn’t suddenly sparked, snapped and lost power. He thought he saw one of the dead men still moving and he attempted to fire the lightning gloves again, but they just popped and bits of smoke curled out of them.
He dragged in a deep breath and blew it out slowly as his therapist told him to do. He dropped his arms to his side, hung his head low and walked to the doorway, stepping over what he thought was Slugger Lois or maybe Dickhead. He opened the scorched door and called out for his receptionist, “Megan?”
“Yes sir?” she replied from down the hall.
Can you send Mr. Dan Ger back in. He got the job,” he then sighed and closed the door. Before it got halfway, he reopened it. “And Megan, make sure he brings the mop.”
-------------------------------------------------------
Dastard walked across the front of the men standing at attention. They all looked mean and nasty and he was very pleased with himself over this crop. Maybe word was finally getting around that he was the man to work for, the man to get the job done and make them all rich.
“I am looking for some help. I am a demanding boss and am perfect in every way, so I seek perfection from my workers as well.” He measured up the men one at a time and looked over his clipboard.
“Tiger Styles? Is that your real name?” he asked the first one. The lean, cut muscles on the dangerous man rippled as he answered, “Uh, no. They call me that because of my fighting style.”
Dastard looked down the list. “Slugger Louis, Gator Jones. Dickhead. Man Mountain. I guess none of these are your real names?” he said apprehensively. “Pity,” he thought. Those names sounded cool. The giants looked around and smiled. A chorus of no’s and chuckles followed, but after a glare from Dastard they all quieted down. They actually looked a bit scared to him. “Perfect,” he thought.
“Let’s see,” he hummed and tapped the clipboard with a pen, “then there’s Calamity Carl, Moose, Phat Joe, and is this right? Which one of you is Dan Ger?” he looked down the row of monstrous men. At the end of the line, a scrawny arm went up. “Here um, sir,” the guy said in a wavering voice.
Dastard stomped down the row and stopped in front of the unassuming man. He took a deep breath and looked him over from bald head to scruffy combat boots. “This guy is a mess,” Dastard thought. He had a strange, twisted beard that dropped from his pointy chin, beady little eyes and a slanted nervous smile on his face. His clothes were old and dirty and hung loose on his wiry frame.
“Listen Dan,” he started but was cut off. “It’s Dan Ger sir, like danger, get it?” and he stuck out his hand to attempt a handshake, but when Dastard looked down he saw the most hideously sweaty palms he had ever seen. They were actually dripping on the floor! And he had just mopped before the guys arrived.
“Listen Dan,” he tried again, “I might have something for you some other time.” He put his arm around him and ushered him to the door, grabbing the mop on the way. “Why don’t you wait out here and my receptionist will get all your info. “
“Yeah, but,” Dan stuttered as he was shuffled out the door.
Dastard handed him the mop, “Thanks for coming,” he said as he gave him a final nudge and closed the door.
“OK boys, I think I’ve seen enough.” He clapped his gloved hands and rubbed them together then walked back around to the front of them. “I’m not one to jump the gun, but I gotta say you guys are in! Welcome to Dastard’s gang,” he beamed and put his fists on his hips, knowing the effect of his extra long cape resettling around him would give them a dramatic shot.
The entire group of men looked at each other, then as one, started laughing. “What?” Man Mountain said, “this is ridiculous.” Dastard blinked quickly, several times. “I thought this was a tryout for Dr. Robot’s Menace Squad,” Gator Jones said in between snorts of derision.
“My agent told me it was for a bank job for Evil-O,” Moose giggled.
“Wait..” Dastard mumbled as he dropped his arms to his side when the men started walking towards the door.
“But…but..” was all the saddened Dastard could say as they reached the door. “Fo real, yo,” Phat Joe called back, “we out. Peace!” More laughter turned to shouts and guffaws as they reached the door.
Dastard raised his arms and let loose, with both gloves, a massive array or lightning that struck the group and seized their bodies before going out. Most of the men were scattered, sent flying by the electrical charge. A couple, like Calamity Carl, dropped to the floor in convulsions. Maddened and haunted by echoes of laughter in his head, Dastard unleashed another barrage, ignoring the very real threat that the gloves could not take much of this and would most likely malfunction and hurt him as well.
More than one of the un-hired gang made quite a mess as their bodies ruptured under the assault. Dastard was very close to losing complete control and would have surely suffered his own wounds to the dangerous gloves if they hadn’t suddenly sparked, snapped and lost power. He thought he saw one of the dead men still moving and he attempted to fire the lightning gloves again, but they just popped and bits of smoke curled out of them.
He dragged in a deep breath and blew it out slowly as his therapist told him to do. He dropped his arms to his side, hung his head low and walked to the doorway, stepping over what he thought was Slugger Lois or maybe Dickhead. He opened the scorched door and called out for his receptionist, “Megan?”
“Yes sir?” she replied from down the hall.
Can you send Mr. Dan Ger back in. He got the job,” he then sighed and closed the door. Before it got halfway, he reopened it. “And Megan, make sure he brings the mop.”
Friday, August 28, 2009
Dastard and the Note
Here's another short bit of that bastard, Dastard.
I have to find a way to tie these together or they will just get repetative.
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The bank teller took the note and her smile faded. She looked up at the man then back down at the note. She looked up again and Dastard fought the urge to scratch his nose under his helmet. The teller turned to her right and whispered to the other one. A guy in his early twenties wearing a tie that he never undid, just loosened and retightened the next day.
The guy looked at the note then looked up at Dastard. Then looked at the note again. The guy got up and said, “Excuse me,” and moved to talk to the bank manager. The girl pasted on a fake smile and shrugged like if the task was out of her realm of expertise. The manager took the note from the teller and looked at it. Then he looked up at Dastard, then down again at the note.
“I think that no-tie knotting teller just smirked at me!” he thought as the bank teller stood up and moved towards him. “Oh, he’ll show me the proper respect!” he thought. “All of them will. My mind is far superior to theirs and they will know it, even if it is the last thing they learn!”
The manager came up to the counter and walked around to the front of it to stand before Dastard, the tie-handicapped guy right next to him.
“Sir,” he started as Dastard couldn’t help but smile under his golden mask and think of what he would do with all that money. Maybe a Dastard-cycle? Or a helicopter? Probably find a better apartment too. Oh, these simpletons don’t know who they are dealing with! I am so smart, they are but insects to me!
“Sir,” the clearly uneducated manager continued, “what exactly is a stink up?”
Dastard’s emotions ran from shock to embarrassment and then to disgust. With himself. The tie guy smirked again and his emotion went to anger. There it was. His old friend.
He slowly reached up and yanked the note out of the manager’s hand.
He then socked the tie-idiot in the mouth and ran for the door, his golden metal boots blending into the sound of sirens outside.
I have to find a way to tie these together or they will just get repetative.
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The bank teller took the note and her smile faded. She looked up at the man then back down at the note. She looked up again and Dastard fought the urge to scratch his nose under his helmet. The teller turned to her right and whispered to the other one. A guy in his early twenties wearing a tie that he never undid, just loosened and retightened the next day.
The guy looked at the note then looked up at Dastard. Then looked at the note again. The guy got up and said, “Excuse me,” and moved to talk to the bank manager. The girl pasted on a fake smile and shrugged like if the task was out of her realm of expertise. The manager took the note from the teller and looked at it. Then he looked up at Dastard, then down again at the note.
“I think that no-tie knotting teller just smirked at me!” he thought as the bank teller stood up and moved towards him. “Oh, he’ll show me the proper respect!” he thought. “All of them will. My mind is far superior to theirs and they will know it, even if it is the last thing they learn!”
The manager came up to the counter and walked around to the front of it to stand before Dastard, the tie-handicapped guy right next to him.
“Sir,” he started as Dastard couldn’t help but smile under his golden mask and think of what he would do with all that money. Maybe a Dastard-cycle? Or a helicopter? Probably find a better apartment too. Oh, these simpletons don’t know who they are dealing with! I am so smart, they are but insects to me!
“Sir,” the clearly uneducated manager continued, “what exactly is a stink up?”
Dastard’s emotions ran from shock to embarrassment and then to disgust. With himself. The tie guy smirked again and his emotion went to anger. There it was. His old friend.
He slowly reached up and yanked the note out of the manager’s hand.
He then socked the tie-idiot in the mouth and ran for the door, his golden metal boots blending into the sound of sirens outside.
The Other 45 Ways to Leave Your Lover Not Mentioned in the Song
The other 45 ways to leave your lover not mentioned in the song
Board a midnight train, Blaine
Book a new flight, Dwight
Change all the locks, Scott
Join the other team, Gene
Run over her cat, Matt
Up and be gone, John
Leap on a bomb, Tom
Jump on your bike, Mike
Tell her to go blow, Joe
Tell her to scram, Sam
No need to be mean, Dean
Exit stage left, Jeff
Go out on a limb, Jim
Change your job, Bob
Head on down the hill, Phil
Take the blue pill, Bill
Friends you can be still, Will
No longer your pal, Al
Hit the bricks, Chris
Be a man, Dan
Don’t go down the aisle, Lyle
Tell her she’s fat, Pat
Get up and leave, Steve
You stand up tall, Paul
Rent a new pad, Brad
Shake a leg, Greg
Run to the park, Mark
Be a bit discrete, Pete
You’ll know when, Ben
Be tough and brave, Dave
With a goodbye hug, Doug
Be gone before dawn, Sean
Crush her house in a tank, Frank
Fake it in bed, Fred
Let your plans unfurl, Earl
Get out of Dodge, Todd
Just don’t look back, Zack
Treat her like dirt, Kurt
You need your space, Ace
Drop her off at the zoo, Lou
Don’t feel too bad, Tad
You gotta scratch that itch, Rich
Say it’s you or him, Tim
Don’t plead or beg, Craig
Make your lies stick, Nick
Board a midnight train, Blaine
Book a new flight, Dwight
Change all the locks, Scott
Join the other team, Gene
Run over her cat, Matt
Up and be gone, John
Leap on a bomb, Tom
Jump on your bike, Mike
Tell her to go blow, Joe
Tell her to scram, Sam
No need to be mean, Dean
Exit stage left, Jeff
Go out on a limb, Jim
Change your job, Bob
Head on down the hill, Phil
Take the blue pill, Bill
Friends you can be still, Will
No longer your pal, Al
Hit the bricks, Chris
Be a man, Dan
Don’t go down the aisle, Lyle
Tell her she’s fat, Pat
Get up and leave, Steve
You stand up tall, Paul
Rent a new pad, Brad
Shake a leg, Greg
Run to the park, Mark
Be a bit discrete, Pete
You’ll know when, Ben
Be tough and brave, Dave
With a goodbye hug, Doug
Be gone before dawn, Sean
Crush her house in a tank, Frank
Fake it in bed, Fred
Let your plans unfurl, Earl
Get out of Dodge, Todd
Just don’t look back, Zack
Treat her like dirt, Kurt
You need your space, Ace
Drop her off at the zoo, Lou
Don’t feel too bad, Tad
You gotta scratch that itch, Rich
Say it’s you or him, Tim
Don’t plead or beg, Craig
Make your lies stick, Nick
The Last Joyride
Just a simple idea I had. I tried to do it in under 100 words but I fell WAY short. Or is it long?
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“I never should have stolen that damn car,” Richie thought, as his lungs filled with blood and his sight blurred. The cries of the women he tried to save were little comfort as the gang moved closer. They swore at him in broken English and laughed at how they thought it was really him, come to punish them. Then they took turns deciding what they would do to him next, this crazy fool who pulled up in the car and tried to stop their fun for the night. Richie tried to blink away the sweat over his brow and stare into the looming shadows of Death. He may have led a horrible life but his last act surprised him. Maybe it was the way people looked at him as he drove down the streets and alleys of the city. Maybe part of him wanted to know the way a righteous man felt, even if it was only a trick. Just for once to do something good and right. The darkness coalesced around him and the laughter trailed off. “This is it,” he thought as the shadow became the shape of a bat when it fell around him, “how ironic.”
The gang around him erupted in yells of pain and panic. Richie tried to focus his eyes and force breath into his clogged lungs. He was just able to make out the man standing over him, defending him, protecting him, when the man in the dark cape and the pointed ears bent down and whispered to him. “It’s okay now, you did good son. Rest” Richie smiled and no longer felt afraid of the dark, but welcomed its embrace. It was the only time he ever felt safe in the city of his birth and death; Gotham.
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“I never should have stolen that damn car,” Richie thought, as his lungs filled with blood and his sight blurred. The cries of the women he tried to save were little comfort as the gang moved closer. They swore at him in broken English and laughed at how they thought it was really him, come to punish them. Then they took turns deciding what they would do to him next, this crazy fool who pulled up in the car and tried to stop their fun for the night. Richie tried to blink away the sweat over his brow and stare into the looming shadows of Death. He may have led a horrible life but his last act surprised him. Maybe it was the way people looked at him as he drove down the streets and alleys of the city. Maybe part of him wanted to know the way a righteous man felt, even if it was only a trick. Just for once to do something good and right. The darkness coalesced around him and the laughter trailed off. “This is it,” he thought as the shadow became the shape of a bat when it fell around him, “how ironic.”
The gang around him erupted in yells of pain and panic. Richie tried to focus his eyes and force breath into his clogged lungs. He was just able to make out the man standing over him, defending him, protecting him, when the man in the dark cape and the pointed ears bent down and whispered to him. “It’s okay now, you did good son. Rest” Richie smiled and no longer felt afraid of the dark, but welcomed its embrace. It was the only time he ever felt safe in the city of his birth and death; Gotham.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
the 1920's
This was an exercise I did to compete with a kid at works' homework. He was told to write a 2 page story using all the key phrases about the 1920's that he was learning about in History class.
Mine came out to 3 pages. Not a great story, it lacks any real detail or historical truth that I know of, but I like the wrap up at the end.
They say to always be writing. And this let me write something I ordinarily would never have tackled.
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“Grampa! Grampa! Tell us about the time you punched out Al Capone!” “No, tell us how you saved the Great Bambino’s life!” “How about when you were a spy, Grampa!”
“Ok, ok, settle down kids and get under the covers,” he said as he lowered himself into the rocking chair in between the beds. His eyes sort of glazed over as he drifted off into his memories. “I was waiting at the new airport downtown. You see, I was on a top secret mission,” he said, slyly winking to the kids. “Some very important people were coming into town to go to a ballgame and I had to pick them up and get them there. The problem was they were very late and when they finally arrived, one of them told me that if they didn’t get there on time, they’d be killed!” He overemphasized the last word and one of the kids let out a squeal of pretend fear.
“So we raced down the expressway in my new car. The car industry had become so good by then that the cars were sturdy enough to probably drive all the way across country on the new highways that were starting to cover the nation. Man that car was swell! I remember how lucky I was to get it even with the easier credit the banks were letting people get away with.” He paused and whistled slightly. “I guess things would have been different if they’d realized how dependent we’d eventually all become on credit cards and what not.”
“Grampa, stick to the story,” one child moaned and the others hushed him.
“We got there just in time. I pulled up to the stadium and they told me to go around to the back where the players enter. I was pretty surprised since they didn’t look like big time baseball players to me, just regular Joes. Well one of them was kinda, um, big boned you’d say. One of the men paid me as the other said to the big guy, ‘Hey sign a ball for him Babe’ as he got out. The Babe tossed me a ball and said, ‘You’re a life saver kid,’ and they went inside the stadium.”
“Now the fight, Grampa! The fight,” one of the boys cried, throwing punches in the air at the invisible gangsters hovering over his bed.
“I got paid on a Friday at the production plant and since business was booming, I had enough to take my best girl on a big night on the town. I picked her up in my new car and took her to a talkie. That’s what we called the movies back then since adding sound to the films was practically brand new. Afterwards we stopped for a piece of pie and strolled around downtown. There were no bars to go to like people had done before or do now, since Prohibition and Doris liked to talk about how with her being able to vote now, she’d like to vote out those alcohol banning laws.”
“See, I had a surprise for Doris. We walked down an alley and came to a big metal door. There were no signs anywhere and Doris started to get a little worried. But when I rapped my knuckles on the door, a little secret window opened and someone said, ‘Hey, there’s no one here.’ And I said the secret password, “Flapper” and they opened that big metal door for us and we went inside. Swing music and that new Jazz stuff filled the place. There were people everywhere. Drinking and gambl.., uh playing card games, and dancing. Man, the dancing! Doris and I must have danced for hours. Well until the cops showed up.”
“They raided the speakeasy and everyone was screaming and running, and by the time we got to the exit to get outside, a cop had blocked the doorway. But then the guy next to me, a real tough guy who worked for Al Capone they said, pulled a gun out on the cop who had nothing but a nightstick to defend himself. The mug waved the gun around drunkenly and before he could shoot anybody, I socked him in the eye and he went down like a sack of potatoes.”
The kids all cheered and again imitated their Granddad, throwing little balled up fists into the air.
“So the cop, I guess grateful, waved us past him and we ran out into the street and away from any more trouble.”
The old man groaned slightly as he stood up and moved to the bedroom door. “Did you kiss her goodnight Grampa?” little Jennie asked softly, half asleep already.
“I guess you can ask your Gramma Doris tomorrow morning, honey,” he replied as he said goodnight and clicked off the light.
Mine came out to 3 pages. Not a great story, it lacks any real detail or historical truth that I know of, but I like the wrap up at the end.
They say to always be writing. And this let me write something I ordinarily would never have tackled.
------------------------------------------------------------
“Grampa! Grampa! Tell us about the time you punched out Al Capone!” “No, tell us how you saved the Great Bambino’s life!” “How about when you were a spy, Grampa!”
“Ok, ok, settle down kids and get under the covers,” he said as he lowered himself into the rocking chair in between the beds. His eyes sort of glazed over as he drifted off into his memories. “I was waiting at the new airport downtown. You see, I was on a top secret mission,” he said, slyly winking to the kids. “Some very important people were coming into town to go to a ballgame and I had to pick them up and get them there. The problem was they were very late and when they finally arrived, one of them told me that if they didn’t get there on time, they’d be killed!” He overemphasized the last word and one of the kids let out a squeal of pretend fear.
“So we raced down the expressway in my new car. The car industry had become so good by then that the cars were sturdy enough to probably drive all the way across country on the new highways that were starting to cover the nation. Man that car was swell! I remember how lucky I was to get it even with the easier credit the banks were letting people get away with.” He paused and whistled slightly. “I guess things would have been different if they’d realized how dependent we’d eventually all become on credit cards and what not.”
“Grampa, stick to the story,” one child moaned and the others hushed him.
“We got there just in time. I pulled up to the stadium and they told me to go around to the back where the players enter. I was pretty surprised since they didn’t look like big time baseball players to me, just regular Joes. Well one of them was kinda, um, big boned you’d say. One of the men paid me as the other said to the big guy, ‘Hey sign a ball for him Babe’ as he got out. The Babe tossed me a ball and said, ‘You’re a life saver kid,’ and they went inside the stadium.”
“Now the fight, Grampa! The fight,” one of the boys cried, throwing punches in the air at the invisible gangsters hovering over his bed.
“I got paid on a Friday at the production plant and since business was booming, I had enough to take my best girl on a big night on the town. I picked her up in my new car and took her to a talkie. That’s what we called the movies back then since adding sound to the films was practically brand new. Afterwards we stopped for a piece of pie and strolled around downtown. There were no bars to go to like people had done before or do now, since Prohibition and Doris liked to talk about how with her being able to vote now, she’d like to vote out those alcohol banning laws.”
“See, I had a surprise for Doris. We walked down an alley and came to a big metal door. There were no signs anywhere and Doris started to get a little worried. But when I rapped my knuckles on the door, a little secret window opened and someone said, ‘Hey, there’s no one here.’ And I said the secret password, “Flapper” and they opened that big metal door for us and we went inside. Swing music and that new Jazz stuff filled the place. There were people everywhere. Drinking and gambl.., uh playing card games, and dancing. Man, the dancing! Doris and I must have danced for hours. Well until the cops showed up.”
“They raided the speakeasy and everyone was screaming and running, and by the time we got to the exit to get outside, a cop had blocked the doorway. But then the guy next to me, a real tough guy who worked for Al Capone they said, pulled a gun out on the cop who had nothing but a nightstick to defend himself. The mug waved the gun around drunkenly and before he could shoot anybody, I socked him in the eye and he went down like a sack of potatoes.”
The kids all cheered and again imitated their Granddad, throwing little balled up fists into the air.
“So the cop, I guess grateful, waved us past him and we ran out into the street and away from any more trouble.”
The old man groaned slightly as he stood up and moved to the bedroom door. “Did you kiss her goodnight Grampa?” little Jennie asked softly, half asleep already.
“I guess you can ask your Gramma Doris tomorrow morning, honey,” he replied as he said goodnight and clicked off the light.
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