The challenge is to write a short story by Saturday and posting it here. One that starts with that line, and without pulling something like: "The sea was filled with angry monkeys.
Bob was desperately in love with Sue. He had to see her again...etc."
Let's put the length limit at, say, a page in MS Word(Times New Roman, size 12). What say ye?
Posted by Belle (Member # 2314) on :
Is that a double or single spaced page in MS Word? What about the margins? (I recommend an inch all around and single spaced)
Is Humor allowed? Is this judged?
Edit: Geez Belle, stop typing faster than you think.
[ March 01, 2004, 06:40 PM: Message edited by: Belle ]
Posted by T_Smith (Member # 3734) on :
I'm game. Somehow, writing about a sea full of monkeys is just the motivation I need.
Posted by Beren One Hand (Member # 3403) on :
I suggest using word count instead of page limits.
Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
Yeah, I oculdn't find a good word count right off. Right, what say 450 word limit?
I think we judge this by general consensus. I suppose it isn't well thought out. Any ideas?
And yes, humor is allowed. Just make it work.
Credit where credit is due: This is the opening line of Rat's novel in yesterday's "Pearls Before Swine" newspaper comic strip.
Posted by T_Smith (Member # 3734) on :
450 words, single spaced is about half a page, methinks.
Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
Nah, measured it out. With the press-enter-twice rather than tab paragraph breaks we'd have to use here, it's a page.
Posted by Ryuko (Member # 5125) on :
(bump) Im busy with another short story, but this is certainly a worthy cause.
Posted by MoonRabbit (Member # 3652) on :
O_o;; Funny, but also disturbing...
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
quote:The sea was filled with angry monkeys.
Sounds like a chapter in "The Life of Pi."
Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
450 words?! Ack, that's 1 day of writing and 4 days of editing down. All right, I'll try it.
Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
I love "Pearls Before Swine." Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
The sea was filled with angry monkeys.
The u-boat commander mopped the perspiration from his forehead.
As the depth charges had come increasingly nearer, he had ordered that the seventy Golden Tamarind monkeys be stuffed into the torpedo tubes and jettisoned in a final effort to evade the PT boats circling overhead.
The monkeys were to have been a gift to the emperor on his seventieth birthday during this, the year of the monkey. It had been viewed as a fitting tribute, as the well-groomed mane of the Golden Tamarind much resembled that of their beloved emperor-god.
The u-boat had lain at the mouth of the Amazon for weeks as the animals were collected from the forest and brought downriver. Morale had been low during the wait and the fact that they had long since drunk the last bottle of sake hadn’t helped. Gradually the waiting cages had been filled, and a celebratory atmosphere had overtaken the submariners as the day of departure for the return trip had drawn near.
At first the lonely sailors had enjoyed the company of the furry creatures. They were easily tamed and would greedily snatch bits of banana from the sailors’ fingers. The sailors were delighted by the monkey’s antics, and several were allowed to roam loose on the submarine. They would hang from the overhead conduits and drop suddenly onto the shoulders of unsuspecting sailors.
But the monkeys had quickly become a nuisance. Their droppings were found everywhere, in the sailors’ bunks and in the galley. This had been intolerable to the Japanese, who pride themselves on cleanliness, and the loose monkeys had been rounded up and confined to their cages.
While the Japanese viewed golden monkeys as a symbol of good luck, it had become readily apparent that monkeys were to be nothing but bad luck for the submariners on their return voyage. The overpowering stench of the creatures had forced them to surface almost hourly for fresh air, and it had been impossible to quiet the monkeys when silent running was required.
They had encountered the first patrol boat on the return leg as they entered the Straight of Magellan at the southern tip of South America. The PT boat had pursued the submarine mercilessly as they navigated the narrow channel, but the commander had skillfully eluded the PT boat by hiding among the numerous small islands that dotted the channel. Finally, as they emerged on the Chilean coast, they had encountered the American convoy.
Now, with the loss of the precious monkey cargo the entire voyage would be a waste, were it not for a more precious cargo: the exiled Nazi general.
The u-boat commander bared his chest and impaled himself upon the drawn sword.
Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
Yow. I would have impaled myself too for bringing a bunch of monkeys into a submarine. Posted by solo (Member # 3148) on :
quote:solo: The trial was a media circus. The gallery was filled with clowns...
Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
Thanks for those so far. Anyone wanna volunteer for judging? I think we should really limit it to, say, five max(?) judges. Instead of general consensus.
Posted by BannaOj (Member # 3206) on :
The sea was filled with angry monkeys. Captian Bly looked down from his ship in dismay. This shipment had been his most difficult ever, and it wasn’t over yet. He was beginning to doubt that it was worth the extremely good pay that he had been offered for asking no questions. The boat slowly turned back to retrieve the monkeys. Bly was wondering if it was worth losing the money and leaving them for the sharks. Fortunately several of the rhesus monkeys had clambered onto the life buoys that had been thrown.
As the crew netted them out of the water, he was tempted to tell them to leave the worst troublemaker that had undone the cage in the drink. He had seriously been thinking of keelhauling where that monkey was concerned. As it was, the monkey went into solitary in his own cage. After a couple of hours of noise neither he, nor his crew of three could take it any longer and they put the lone monkey back in sight of the rest of the monkeys. The sapiens subsided somewhat but still weren’t happy. They took guard shifts to make sure the monkeys didn’t outwit them and try something else.
“Dagnabit, “Bly thought, “I’m developing a conscience.” Truth be told he really didn’t want to see them going to laboratories. Despite their annoyances, the individual personalities of the monkeys were seeping through and getting to him. Only 200 more miles on this run and he was done with them forever.
Two days later he pulled into the harbor. He asked the question, knowing he didn’t want to know the answer. “So where are the monkeys going?” He knew he wasn’t going to get specifics and that he shouldn’t ask, it was breaking all the rules of the trade. He was pleasantly relieved to hear the answer. “Private collector’s zoos.” In the shady world of smuggling Bly was happy to be on the lighter side of grey, if just this once.
AJ
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
quote:Dagnabit
Aaaaarrrrrrrghhh!
Posted by BannaOj (Member # 3206) on :
my monkey tale was horribly bland. I should have made him a more colorful pirate. But it is the end of the day and my brain is fried.
AJ
Posted by Book (Member # 5500) on :
I loved that strip. It follows as:
A goat comes up and says, "That's the worst start to a novel I've ever heard of. It's ridiculous and has no context."
And Rat writes, "It was a warm day when the seaside monkey factory suddenly exploded."
Pretty good stuff.
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
quote:my monkey tale was horribly bland
We always order the lobster.
I like your idea of bringing buccaneers forward into the 21st century (you've got laboratories and private zoos, which suggested to me a more modern setting). I don't suppose modern pirates would say "aaarrrgh" or "shiver me timbers." They'd be techies with PDAs and GPSs and such.
[ March 04, 2004, 12:56 AM: Message edited by: skillery ]
Posted by MoonRabbit (Member # 3652) on :
I think the winner should get to make up the next challenge's beginning line.
Posted by TimeTim (Member # 2768) on :
Ok here it is.
The sea was filled with angry monkeys. And I mean filled. From where I hung, upside down from the mainmast of the research clipper Oook, all I could see in all directions was a vast writhing sea of angry, vicious monkeys. They ran the gamut from golden rhesus monkeys and Norwegian dipping monkeys to savage baboons and orangutans from the darkest corners of the world, all of them chittering and shrieking in simple simian rage.
A wave of Gibbons rose right in front of me, pushed up from the main mass by simple physics and an overpowering lust for what was stored in the holds of our ship. This wasn’t an ordinary simian research ship out for a six-month cruise on the Mare Simius. The Oook was to be the site for the first experimental testing of the highly volatile red banana. If all had gone as planned I would be hoisting a glass of distilled Howler Monkey (’89 vintage) with my comrades as we celebrated our success.
The wave came closer, and as it approached I could begin to make out individual screaming faces in the wall of monkeys that rushed towards me, towering hundreds of feet from the simian surface. Each face was etched with the same twisted lust and greed that I had come to know so well. Only a few days ago I had tested the bananas on an unsuspecting host, not knowing the terrible power that I had unlocked with my reckless tampering. Move a few genes here, a few more there and hey presto! You’ve got yourself a miracle drug! A drug that will enable humans to go for the first time, where no man has gone before: Into the depths of the Simian Sea! Of course it wasn’t that easy, but that was the plan. Before we found out the terrible power that a sea of monkeys can wield. A sea of monkeys desperate to find the last vestiges of the drug that let them move, think and act as one being.
The vicious wave of monkeys was closer now, and I thought desperately of my family far to the East on the shores of the once peaceful and mysterious sea that had captivated me for years and would soon prove to be my undoing. The monkeys were addicted to the strange red bananas that I had created and intended to use a means of peaceful exploration. So ironic that the very vessel I had intended to use to control and tame this sea provided that very means for my destruction. “Oh well,” I sighed resignedly in the face of my onrushing doom. “They always said never to get between a Monkey and his banana.”
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
TimeTim
I haven't been here long enough to know for sure, but I'd say TimeTim has some OSC DNA.
[ March 04, 2004, 12:20 AM: Message edited by: skillery ]
Posted by Chris Bridges (Member # 1138) on :
The sea was filled with angry monkeys.
Watching it, Dr. Rounder felt ice creeping up his spine.
From the top of the lab's observation tower he could see the mass of furious, snarling primates moving in swells and waves, cresting over each other to crash against the rocks below.
And the sight was nothing compared to the horrifying sound of a million throats howling at once. Rounder shuddered.
"Was this what we paid for, doctor?" came a voice from behind him. Even shouting over the simian roar the voice managed to convey scorn and disgust. "You promised me instant soldiers, not an endless supply of chimps! Explain this, before I have you shot!"
Rounder turned from the surging tide of monkeys to face the general. "The pod was only supposed to generate twenty skilled men, not... not this!" he yelled back, embarrassment and horror swirling over his face. "My breakthrough in instant phylogeny, and it... it..." He looked over his shoulder. The sea was rising. "You saw it work in the lab! You saw it, Hammond! We used human DNA, this shouldn't have happened! Maybe the sea water--"
"What I see is my career getting flushed!" The general shoved the scientist roughly against the railing. "What I see is the man who ruined me! What pathetic monkeyboy DNA did you use?"
"Mine," Rounder sobbed, broken.
Hammond sneered at him from an inch away. "No wonder," he said.
And then he pitched Rounder over the side.
The scientist screamed all the way down, but Hammond had stopped thinking about him as soon as he let go. Right now he needed deniability and distance, and fast. He marched towards the door, intent on getting the hell out of there and utterly oblivious to the fact that the howling had stopped.
The labs were empty. Obviously Rounder's people were smarter than he was, Hammond thought, and he set to work. Within minutes all the papers and computers and other evidence of the experiments were aflame.
He hurled himself out the front door as the first explosion hit. That's that, he thought. The monkeys will die or kill each other, and I'll be--
Hammond stopped. The furry sea was calm, like a lake on a windless day. He took a hesitant step forward, and only years of combat survival kept him from crying out when a towering wave of monkeys suddenly surged up, bearing Dr. Rounder aloft like a pudgy, lab-coated Aphrodite. A hundred yellow eyes glared at him, waiting.
"Guess what, general!" Rounder cried. "Turns out I'm their alpha male! And you know, despite the taxonomical contradiction, they make excellent gorilla soldiers after all!"
And the wave broke over the general's screams.
[ March 04, 2004, 12:53 AM: Message edited by: Chris Bridges ]
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
Wasn't Hammond the billionaire guy in Jurassic Park?
The dialogue between your characters was brilliant!
[ March 04, 2004, 01:01 AM: Message edited by: skillery ]
Posted by Chris Bridges (Member # 1138) on :
Just to give you an idea of my writing habits, since posting that I've already edited it four times and kept it at 450 words each time. There's always a better phrase, maybe just one more edit...
Five times. But that's all, honest.
[ March 04, 2004, 12:54 AM: Message edited by: Chris Bridges ]
Posted by Chris Bridges (Member # 1138) on :
Am I the only one who thinks it funny, getting a challenge about monkeys from someone named Anthro?
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
I don't think I'll write in past-perfect again. It's too wordy and too hard to maintain tense.
I should have attended Uncle Orson's writing class.
Posted by fiazko (Member # 5812) on :
"The sea was full of angry monkeys." The garbled words flowed along rivulets of drool, winding down his chin before hitching a ride on the sound waves that reached the rest of the room.
The Group fell silent. All heads turned toward the well-worn La-Z-Boy in the corner of the room. Another perplexing phrase was headed their way.
"They fffforgot to make bubbles." Eyes and smiles widened into looks of amused surprise, but no one made a sound.
"I fed them Chiclets, you ninny." This time, perhaps due to the indignance of the statement, the speech was well-articulated, and somehow, The Sleeper remained undisturbed as five simultaneous guffaws ripped through the silence. A grunt from the recliner quickly stifled the laughter. Ten eyes once again focused on the slumbering mass.
The Sleeper opened and closed his mouth as if fending off a bad taste. "There's turpentine in the Jell-O," he said, nonchalantly. There were snorts and snickers in response. One Companion was driven to tears and tremors of silent amusement.
"You'd think a sheep would know better." Palpable scorn laced The Sleeper's rebuke. All the Companions were crying now, the tears narrowly escaping from their tightly shut eyes. Lungs begged for air, vacuuming precious oxygen at every opportunity. Bodies rocked and quaked. Stockinged feet stomped the floor in protest of the hilarity.
Stricken blind with laughter, no one noticed when The Sleeper raised his hand, three fingers touching the thumb, pinky outstretched. "Mmmm. . .tea and crumpets," he said, complete with a terrible British accent. "They really are magnificent, aren't they?"
This time the screams were too loud, even for The Sleeper. He awoke to find the Companions writhing on the floor, faces twisted in anguish. Not knowing the cause of their pain, and being somewhat of a dimwit, he stood stupefied, unconsciously picking at the crusty saliva on his face.
"Uhhh, guys? What's going on?" said The Sleeper. Nothing. "Guys?" A little louder. Rasps and throaty screams were his reply. Finally catching on that something might be wrong, The Sleeper dropped to his knees next to the nearest Companion and laid a squishy hand on the squirming shoulder and shouted "What's happening!"
As a maestro silences his ensemble, the fits were cut off by The Sleeper's bellow. Slowly, the Group sat up, gasping and wiping at watery eyes and damp cheeks. Breathless chuckles rippled through the room like earthquake aftershocks. Minutes passed before the Companion whose bicep was still in the vice-grip of The Sleeper was able to offer an explanation.
"You were talking in your sleep." Giggles from the other Companions.
"What? That's it?" Incredulity overcame The Sleeper. "I thought you guys were dying!"
The Companion shrugged. "I guess you had to be there.
Posted by Lime (Member # 1707) on :
This is a cool idea. *runs off to write something*
EDIT: I really liked TimeTim and Chris' stories, btw.
[ March 04, 2004, 11:11 AM: Message edited by: Lime ]
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
That "Sleeper" story was a cool idea.
There's got to be a story behind why this poor fellow doesn't get any privacy when he's trying to rest. Perhaps he has to be monitored around the clock because on rare occasions he mutters something in his sleep that is so profound that it has to be recorded in the society’s canon of scripture. The bigger story could include debates about whether a particular muttering was nonsense or scripture, and there could be examples of nonsensical mutterings that have been incorporated into the society’s customs, and how those customs somehow make the society work.
Posted by Lime (Member # 1707) on :
(My computer is down at the moment, so if this isn't exactly 450 words, forgive me - the best I could do was measure this against Chris' story copied and pasted into Wordpad).
*Queue soulful and dramatic violin solo*
The sea was filled with angry monkeys, a riot of noise that drilled into my brain like a bullet, tracing the shape of my thoughts. I couldn't see anything for the blood and rainwater in my eyes, but their screams told me enough. It was the end.
***************
But that's only half the story. The dark and twisted path that leads there deserves to be told as well. I had it all: a family, a job. Two-point-two kids, a house. A dog. Two suits. Premium cable and a TIVO. But then, one day:
"Steve, I'm leaving to take the kids out to camp now. I'll spend the night at my mom's on the way back. Have a good weekend, honey. I'll see you on Monday!"
My world collapsed around me like the shattered skeleton of a burning building. My wife and kids were gone - eaten alive by the horrors of long distance travel. I wouldn't see them again, not until Monday. Like Icarus, I had climbed too high, too close to heaven. Blinded by my own dreams, I hadn't seen the sun - the fiery edge of the sword that bit into my soul. Too often, the silver lining is just another sharpened blade, and now my wings were cut; I was falling with no way to stop.
At work the next morning, I sat down at my desk to discover that someone had stolen my favorite pen. It had glided across papers and reports like the silent stalk of death, as black as the ink it spread behind it. Now someone had taken it, leaving me to scratch my reports from the unfeeling tips of half-gnawed pencils. The bastard.
The Lieutenant called me in to his office.
"Decard, I know you've got better things to do, but the chief needs this done and I can't spare anyone else." I picked up the paper and read it. There was a circus coming to town to take part in the St. Patrick's Day parade, and they wanted me on the dock to keep an eye on things.
"Something's going down at the parade and you don't want me to complicate things."
"Think of it as a vacation, Decard. You're way too stressed out, you know that? I don't know how the hell you do it - you're just a traffic cop. Just go out to the docks, listen to the sea against the land and relax for God's sake."
It was good advice, but as I pulled up to the docks, I couldn't get the stink out of my nostrils. Something was fishy. And I was right - the real trouble came that night, in the pouring rain, when the monkeys returned from the parade. I didn't recognize the handler. I approached him as he stacked the monkey cages on top of each other.
"Officer Decard, NYPD. Who're you?" He didn't get a chance to answer me. I was buried under the flow of boxed simian as the cages poured off the dock into the bay. Rolling over, I tried to get a grip on the passing boxes - too late. The sea was filled with angry monkeys, but their anger quickly turned to joy. It was the end - the end of their captivity. Springing the cages, the monkeys swam for freedom.
Pain lanced my skull. The monkeys had broken free with smuggled equipment from a dead drop at the parade, and I had been powerless to stop it. But as my blood mixed with the rain, I vowed whoever had bought off the Lieutenant would pay.
[ March 04, 2004, 11:21 AM: Message edited by: Lime ]
Posted by Lime (Member # 1707) on :
quote:Originally posted by skillery There's got to be a story behind why this poor fellow doesn't get any privacy when he's trying to rest. Perhaps he has to be monitored around the clock because on rare occasions he mutters something in his sleep that is so profound that it has to be recorded in the society’s canon of scripture. The bigger story could include debates about whether a particular muttering was nonsense or scripture, and there could be examples of nonsensical mutterings that have been incorporated into the society’s customs, and how those customs somehow make the society work.
Perhaps a psionically gifted individual that receives random texts and speaks them in his sleep?
"Random texts" is the wrong phrase, but I can't find the right one - I seem to remember a short story that I read a while ago that centered around someone transforming radio noise into randomly generated text that would sometimes produce segments of readable, sensible text. The idea was that eventually this would produce some sort of message from God, or perhaps the text of a book that hasn't been written yet.
But yeah, something like that, perhaps?
Posted by Scott R (Member # 567) on :
quote:The sea was filled with angry monkeys.
And they were all jetting towards me. I hadn’t meant to shoot Prime Minister Oloowashesi—I was aiming for his daughter, the vastly unlovable, and unloving, Nooloi Oloowashesi. But the Prime Minister had seen me, and in what must have been a rare pang of parental protectionism, leaped in front of bullet.
Stupid simian. Didn’t he know a beneficiary when he saw one?
I kindled the skim’s engines with a flick of my tail, and kicked up a spray of foam into my pursuers’ faces. They screamed at me angrily, though every single one of them knew what it was I HAD been about. Every single one of them was in on the plot to assassinate Nooloi. But no one likes a cat, especially not on New Congo.
Pity that my skim wasn’t nearly as quick as their jetts. They caught me, drowned out five of my six remaining lives, and sent me to Nooloi.
Nooloi wasn’t nearly as gentle, but she didn’t kill me. She did sic her pet Mugo-dawg on me, which was embarrassing. The old wives tales about cats being scared of dawgs is just that—old. I haven’t been afraid of a dawg since I stopped sucking on my mother’s nip. It tore off a good chunk of my leg before I got bored, and cut it open with a swipe of my paw. Then Nooloi got angry and dropped me in a flea pit. Fleas. Ordinary, blood sucking fleas. I had never wanted to die more.
And above me, she stood and gloated. She ranted, she raved, she carried on. And then she slept for a while. A very long while because you should never turn your back on a cat.
This time, no one was around to stop me from killing her. Like the old classic says, ‘Beware the wrath of a crossed cat.’
The fleas ate one half of Nooloi’s body—the rest I gave to her Mugo-dawg.
Viva la revoluccion!
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
quote:Lime: My world collapsed around me like the shattered skeleton of a burning building.
I like your first person narrative...sounds like Sam Spade. I imagine lots of smoke, shadows and rain, ala Blade Runner.
Posted by Lime (Member # 1707) on :
Thanks.
Actually, when I saw the opening sentence as suggested, it reminded me of Max Payne 2 and the incredibly twisted corridors of metaphor they use in that game. I wish that I could say I've been inspired by something a bit more traditional, but I'm a geek.
Posted by Dan_raven (Member # 3383) on :
I finished my story.
1045 words for one bad joke.
Time to edit.
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
Monkeys on Sea Doos? Scott R's New Congo sounds like Waterworld with smart animals replacing the humans. The idea of animals using fleas as a torture mechanism was a nice touch.
Posted by Da_Goat (Member # 5529) on :
I think we should make this a weekly thing, like the Photoshops. This I might even be able to participate in.
Posted by Lime (Member # 1707) on :
That's a great idea, Goat. I'd do it.
Posted by Dan_raven (Member # 3383) on :
450 words? 800 would be a bit over, huh?
Back to editing.
Posted by TomDavidson (Member # 124) on :
I'm amazed that no one's done a piece on the Great Flood yet. That was the first thing that occurred to me. Posted by Chris Bridges (Member # 1138) on :
I'm waiting for the inevitable sea-monkeys one...
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
I'm still struggling with MoonRabbit's story. Those poor monkeys really take a beating. I’m hoping somebody will write a story about monkeys revolting and spanking their owner.
Posted by Dan_raven (Member # 3383) on :
“The sea was filled with Angry Monkeys”
Silence filled the oak paneled room. Then a snicker killed it.
“Could you repeat that communique Mr. Parks?” asked Senator Paul Roman, Democrat and newest member of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.
“Certainly,” smiled the nervous Mr. Parks. “‘The sea was filled with angry monkeys.”
“From this intercepted joke we invaded Iraq?” asked the Senator.
“I am not in a position to know. I am just the analyst that decoded this message.”
Senator Roman was miffed. “What did you decode this message to mean?”
Parks hesitated. He loosened his tie. “Cryptology is not an exact science” The Senator waited. “With a substitution code one word is substitued for another. Simple linguistic techniques will not help. Psychological profiling is used to determine what the words really meant.”
The senator looked confused, mainly because he was confused. “What?”
“Saddam sent this to a man in Kuwait who had connections to a Jordanian Hamas operative who’s brother-in-law may be Al-Quedan. Using psychology we thought we knew what the code words meant. We were mistaken.”
“We, Mr. Parks? The translation was your responsibility.”
“It was mostly my mistake. There were a couple of words that my superiors took as givens. After finding Sadaam’s code books I discovered how wrong we were.”
“For instance?”
“Well, take the word Monkey. I translated that as a compound word of Mon and Key. Key was a map key. Monkey was used often chatter from Saddam’s palaces. We knew he had WMD’s so Mon was assumed to be WMD.”
“Understandable. What have you since learned.”
Mr. Parks paused.
The senator raised an eyebrow. “What did Monkey really translate to.”
Mr. Parks blushed. “Herring.”
Laughter filled the room.
“Herring?” gasped Senator Roman.
“Saddam enjoys herring for breakfast. Keeping him supplied caused a lot of communications chatter.”
“The WMD were Herring?”
“No sir. The word Angry sets this message apart from breakfast chatter.”
“Angry? What does Angry have to do with herring. Are they dangerous little fish when mad?”
“No sir. When people get angry, their faces turn red. In Saddam’s code Angry translates to red.”
“Red Herring? Are you saying this message was a red herring?”
“They wouldn’t send a message saying that the message was a red herring.”
“What did the message say.”
“Yes sir. Sea translates to C. To Saddam, there was only one C-- Vice President Cheney.”
“So the message read…”
“Vice President Cheney is full of the Red Herrings.”
Senator Roman continued. “What did you think it said.”
Mr. Parks looked at his notes. “Angry was assumed to be another A word—Active, so it was ‘C. has the Active WMD Key,’ and the President insisted that C stood for Al Queda.”
This surprised the Senator. “How does C stand for Al Queda?”
“I assumed there was information President Bush held that I did not.”
“Why did the President think that C stood for Al Queda?”
“I’d rather not say sir.”
“You are under oath Mr. Parks.”
“Two months ago President Bush called and asked me for the translation again. When I said “The C has the Active WMD Key’ he said something a bit disturbing.”
“What did he say?” prompted the senator.
“The President said, and I quote, ‘And we all know Queda starts with a C.”
Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
Actually, I did plan something weekly. Due on Saturday, judged by Sunday, and a new opener by Monday. I'm brainstorming on the next phrase.
Chris and Scott, I loved yours. Dan's too. Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
quote:Anthro: I'm brainstorming on the next phrase.
I'm hoping to see a story from you someday, but it wouldn't be much of a challenge to write a story for your own phrase.
Why not let your winner pick the next phrase as was suggested earlier? If the winner can't come up with a phrase by Monday then be ready with a standby phrase just to keep things going.
Posted by Da_Goat (Member # 5529) on :
quote:The Dougless
The sea was filled with angry monkeys. It was not an everyday occurrence, and nobody knew how it happened. Some speculated that the local mad scientist had dumped his surplus experiments in a branching river. Others assumed it was God playing a practical joke on his people, yet again. Most agreed, though, that it was very reminiscent of a Douglas Adams novel. Those who disagreed were those who had never read an Adams novel, and for that, they were shunned. And it is about those outcasts - The Dougless - that this story is ultimately about.
They searched high and low for people to keep them company. Their barbers, dentists, doctors, religious leaders, anti-religious leaders, friends, enemies - all refused to associate with The Dougless. They found some condolence in their pets, but, being the year 4055, the literacy rate in dogs was in an unfortunate increase. Some resorted to inanimate objects, such as forks or spoons. Others searched dark alleys for any drunk, who was willing to prostitute their communication services. A desperate few gave in and visited their local libraries for less-than-Orson Scott Card reasons.
But the majority turned to a life of evil. They knew what they wanted: revenge. Hour after hour, day after day, torture after torture, they concocted various ways in which to propel the prejudice Adamsaic to their downfall.
They finally came to a conclusion: Just on the coast of California was a MacDonald’s factory. It had been deserted for years, but the machinery was still operational. It was on the largest of these machines that the Dougless would place the Adamsaic. The outcome of this was a mystery, as the directions had been weathered to smudges, and nobody dared find out for themselves.
The time finally arrived; a Adamsaic had been captured. He was placed on the rubber belt. Breaths were held.
The spectators gasped when they saw what had come of the ritual.
Out fell a monkey into the ocean.
It is still unknown how the pattern was started, but we now know why the sea is still filled with angry monkeys.
[ March 04, 2004, 06:32 PM: Message edited by: Da_Goat ]
Posted by Da_Goat (Member # 5529) on :
quote:Why not let your winner pick the next phrase as was suggested earlier? If the winner can't come up with a phrase by Monday then be ready with a standby phrase just to keep things going.
I think that's a good idea. Perhaps you could also adjust the rules just a bit(ie. Instead of "starts with", you could "ends with"; or change the word count).
Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
The sea was full of angry monkeys. Schofield gripped the hard little earthen ball and watched them boil out of the trees and hurl themselves into the water after the rowboat. Thousands of them, it seemed, churning the water to froth, baring their vicious little simian teeth and screaming. The sound was enormous. Schofield could not even hear Gorman's oars dipping in the water. But he glanced back, and there was Gorman, ashen faced, pulling and pulling.
Even when they reached the yacht, when the wash of the waves had thinned the noise, Schofield could see the monkeys seething on the shore.
Later, over dinner, Schofield held up the earthen ball and made a motion to crack it like an egg.
Gorman's fork paused. "Don't," he growled.
"It's what the albino was doing," said Schofield. "Trying to open it before I reached him. He thought it would defend him."
"He thought it would defend itself," grumbled Gorman.
In the late evening, when Gorman had dozed off on the deck, Schofield placed the earthen ball into a little lead-lined containment chamber and lit the lantern. For long minutes, he stared at it through the viewpiece. It still bore the imprints of the small white hand that had gripped it so tightly. With the slim metal grippers that extended into the chamber, he lifted the ball and began to tap it gingerly against the sharp wedge of glass he had placed there.
He pulled his head away from the viewpiece and turned.
Gorman charged through the cabin door and caught Schofield under the chin with one meaty hand. He reached to open the containment chamber, and a ball from Schofield's revolver slammed into the chamber's side. Gorman quickly drew his own revolver, shot at Schofield, and then carefully withdrew the earthen ball from the chamber.
Under a bright half-moon, he pulled the rowboat up onto the beach. He began stepping across the sand, and stopped. He knelt down and brushed the sand from a skeleton. It had been licked clean and white. It lay like a desperate man, with one thin arm outstretched.
From his pocket he took the hard little earthen ball and held it before him. It still carried the marks of Schofield's handling. He leaned to place it in the outstretched hand, and stopped. The fangs were small but sharp. Carefully, he tapped the earthen ball against one of those fangs. Little bits of earth dusted his fingers.
Then he spun around with a soft exclamation. Something was running down the beach at him.
Posted by fiazko (Member # 5812) on :
skillery and Lime, I had a plan, but I exceeded the word count and had to cut off the ending. Glad you liked it, though.
Posted by blacwolve (Member # 2972) on :
How about no word count restrictions, but everyone has to post their word count at the top of their stories?
Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
We don't want anything too long, though. And it adds an extra challenge to it.
I like your idea, Goat. The winner picks a max word count(though not too high!), a phrase, and where it should be on Monday. And I'll have a backup just in case.
Posted by Chris Bridges (Member # 1138) on :
Keep the word count, definitely.
Posted by fiazko (Member # 5812) on :
Where it should be, Anthro? What does that mean?
Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
The phrase, I mean. Whether you should start with the phrase, end with it, stick it somewhere in the middle, etc.
Personally, I think putting it at the beginnign gives you more freedom for writing.
Posted by fiazko (Member # 5812) on :
Oh. I think I got confused with the "on Monday" part. Makes sense now. I think I also would prefer the statement to be at the beginning, but I think we should at least try one at the end and see if it's that much harder.
Posted by TimeTim (Member # 2768) on :
Cool stories
Any word on who the Judges are?
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
We can't start the next challenge until advice_for_robots tells us what's inside the earthen ball. Wow, what a cliffhanger!
Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
Well, whatever’s inside it makes someone want to open it so it can defend itself against the person who is about to kill the other person for trying to open it. That’s as far as I got. I was going to get into what kind of god a group of monkeys might have, and how humans might respond to that god. But I just didn’t have the time or the energy to fit that into 450 words. Sorry for making it hang from a cliff, and glad you read it. Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
It sounded like an Indiana Jones adventure to me. A couple of guys steal an artifact from a bunch of monkeys and then turn on each other.
So whenever somebody tries to find out what's inside, the ball somehow motivates those nearby to come and rescue it? That could go on forever. We're never going to find out what's inside!
[ March 05, 2004, 12:56 AM: Message edited by: skillery ]
Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
I was originally thinking a human embryo that was (magically) being kept alive and in stasis by the monkeys. Schofield was going to open the ball and find it. But then I got tired of the whole story and decided to send it into an infinite loop. You can guess all you want, but you'll never find out what's in that ball.
I think a contest would be lots of fun. We could have everyone vote for their favorite--and you couldn't vote for yourself.
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
Do we start a new thread for each writing challenge and let the previous thread die, or do we keep this original thread alive and append the next challenge onto the end?
I say we keep this thread alive.
Perhaps a searchable keyword, marking the beginning and ending of each week's challenge would make this thread easier to navigate.
Posted by Da_Goat (Member # 5529) on :
I think we should do a new thread each week, like we do for Guess The Author (or, at least, like we used to do for Guess The Author ).
Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
It's kinda like Photoshop Phriday, so let's keep this one, I guess.
Voting on Sunday, then, I guess. Ends midnight Hatrack time and no using alters.
Posted by delicate flower (Member # 6260) on :
I have no story to contribute, but if you don't mind hearing from a "designated reader" I do have a few thoughts (and if you do mind, well, that's no skin off my nose either.)
I think you should keep the 450 word limit. Aside from the challenge of it, it keeps the stories on a level playing field. You can't really compare a 10-15 page story to a 1 page story, it's a different art form.
Also, I like the idea of ending a the story with the key phrase. In a story of this size it's all about the last line. That's where the power comes from. ("from where the power comes," if you want to be picky, I know I shouldn't end a sentence like that, but...) It would be a different kind of reading experience because you'd be looking for the ending from the begining. Do me a favor and at least try it, I think I'd enjoy reading those stories.
Posted by Scythrop (Member # 5731) on :
The sea was full of angry monkeys. At least that's how it would have appeared to a bystander, to someone who wasn't in the know, but Adrian sighed. It still wasn't enough.
It wasn't like he'd meant to take on such a stupid bet. It just seemed a good idea at the time. That's the problem with tequila.
The old barrel was empty. Adrian shambled across to the supply shed and rolled out a new one, trying in vain to ignore the simian chatter from within. Reaching the cliff edge, he heaved the wooden barrel upright, and used a tyre-iron to lever the top off. Twenty five pairs of curious brown eyes stared up at him.
The little mongrels were so bloody docile , that was the problem. And the bet specifically stated that they had to be angry. Not even just mildly annoyed, but completely and utterly furious. A sea full of angry monkeys or his soul, those were the terms.
Reching in, Adrian lifted the first monkey. A small Rhesus minimus. It chattered excitedly, picking a couple of small lice from Adrian's beard and eating them.
"It's all right for you." He muttered, as he started to tickle.
At first the Rhesus thought it was just a game, but a couple of good hard pokes, and it started to realise. Even so, it still took a solid fifteen minutes of poking, prodding and tickling until the little grey creature was properly hissing and scratching at him. Then, finally, Adrian lobbed it out, watching it twist and screech in the air briefly, before splashing into the Pacific with the rest of its kind. Without bothering to see what happened to it, Adrian turned and reached for the next monkey.
The sea was full of angry monkeys, and Adrian was never drinking with an Australian again.
DISCLAIMER: I'm working from an internet cafe, with no word count available, so I've just had to have a bit of a guess....
[ March 06, 2004, 02:59 AM: Message edited by: Scythrop ]
Posted by imogen (Member # 5485) on :
I like that one.
And I even liked it before I edited it over AIM.
Posted by Chizpurfle (Member # 6255) on :
The sea was filled with angry monkeys. Decayed, broken monkeys whose faces were twisted in an furious, accusing scowl. Fetid, putrid and rotting monkeys laid floating wastefully an ocean of burning water. Grab a monkey’s hands and all you will find yourself holding a pruned paw without a body. Run your finger’s through their fur and a lump of scalp will slide easily off.
With the cities and population now tripling at an exponential rate, the monkeys were slowly but surely pushed out of their habitat. Just last week, the bill to eliminate the monkey population was instigated although, not without much protest.
Brother Paldian, a member of GETH, one of the many branches of the former PETA organization, sat defeated on the dock. His picket sign with the words, “GETH Unite!” scrawled haphazardly on, laid kicked to the side. He stared blankly at the mass of monkeys lolling in the ocean. His expression remained neutral but inside his mind raged with both agony and sorrow. His stomach was knotted in the sheer guilt of the evil his society has wrought on the world. Paldian let out a shuttered breath.
Someone grabbed Paldian by his necklace and pulled him back roughly. “What the hell are you doing here?” Paldian was met face to face with a guy who was undoubtedly a construction worker. He was dressed entirely in construction yellow and his face was covered in a sort of gas mask. He looked as if he was waiting for an answer. The construction worker rolled his eyes and said, “Unless you want to get plowed down by that thing,” the construction guy motioned towards the large dump truck that was pulling onto the dock, “You better get out.” He nudged Paldian away and Paldian, knowing he could do nothing else, walked towards the exit. He turned back for one last look and saw a desperate and frantic group of monkeys being poured into the poisoned ocean. Screaming.
“Is that all of them?” the driver of the dump truck asked through the radio.
“Yeah, that’s it.” The construction worker stared into the ocean watching the very last of the monkeys, this one with translucent blue eyes, choke on the poisoned water and die.
The Driver stepped out of that car, “Who was that guy just a while ago?” he asked, meaning of course, Paldian. The construction guy made a face, “That’s just another one of them crazy son of a b*tches from GETH.”
The driver scratched his head with his green tentacles, “Oh. You mean GETH as in the Gordians for the Ethical Treatment of humans?”
“Yes, precisely,” The Construction worker reached into the ocean with a tentacled hand and fished out a floating human head from the ocean and with a grin- CHOMPED. --
463 Word count. Edited down the best I could.
[ March 06, 2004, 09:20 PM: Message edited by: Chizpurfle ]
Posted by cochick (Member # 6167) on :
LOL - I really enjoyed reading those! all of you who shared your talents.
I may even join in next week but don't expect too much!
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
Here's one idea on how to judge this thing:
Those who submitted stories will be the judges. Each participant choses his/her top three favorite stories and ranks them in order, with the best story receiving three points, second best gets two points, and third best gets 1 point. The participant with the most points sets the challenge for the following week.
Here's my picks:
3 points to TimeTim - cool surreal sea of monkeys
2 points to fiazko - Muttering Sleeper was an interesting idea that captured my imagination
1 point to advice for robots - I liked the fast, action/adventure pace
[Edit: Honorable mention goes to Chizpurfle for the nice twist at the end.]
[ March 08, 2004, 12:59 AM: Message edited by: skillery ]
Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
That works, I guess. We close voting at midnight then, since we're already behind. Remember, winner picks next week's phrase.
Posted by Da_Goat (Member # 5529) on :
Are we obligated to judge if we submitted a story?
By the way, I had a better story, but I didn't think I could dumb it down to 350 words, so I deleted it. Then I realized the limit was 450. Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
So far, TimeTIm's winning. . .I'd give it a try.
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
quote:So far, TimeTIm's winning. . .
Hey, I didn't want to pick the winner all by myself!
Do we need to change the rules so that anyone can vote for their favorite?
Posted by Da_Goat (Member # 5529) on :
I say yes.
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
Well vote Goat. I'm anxious to get started on the next story.
Posted by Da_Goat (Member # 5529) on :
I said "yes" because I don't want to be obligated to vote.
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
I guess we don't really need a winner.
Can we open it up so that anyone can submit a starting phrase?
Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
What I planned from the beginning, actually.
How 'bout: Deep inside every person is a chainsaw massacre, struggling to get out.
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
I saw a phrase today that might have made a good starter too:
"The milk smelled funky to begin with."
Posted by MoonRabbit (Member # 3652) on :
"I've never seen that before" the proctologist said.
Posted by Lime (Member # 1707) on :
"The last thing he wanted to see on the dock today was a package addressed to the city of Haven."
Posted by Dan_raven (Member # 3383) on :
STOP! Pick one. Anthro was first, so we go with his.
Unless
You want to use
"Stop! Pick one. Anthro was first, so we go with his."
Posted by TimeTim (Member # 2768) on :
Oops. If only I had checked back sometime in the last two days...
Oh well, I shall let bygones be bygones and manfully refrain from shouting,
"Yes! I won! Mwu Ha Ha Ha Ha! I shall build my throne from the empty bottles of listerene mouthwash that you, my subjects, have used before kissing my feet!"
Anyway, I think that because he has a name in which no two letters are repeated, we should use Anthro's phrase. But, just in case that is a bad idea, I think that we might use the phrase,
"Dr. Khan's Atomic Bazaar."
Or not, as the case may be. Boy that was a great feeling.
P.S. It occurs to me that I might use smilies in order to express my current feelings so I will.
[ March 10, 2004, 05:17 PM: Message edited by: TimeTim ]
Posted by fiazko (Member # 5812) on :
If we're going with Anthro's, it should be "massacrer." One who massacres. Unless we're all equipped with a whole lot of the chainsawed dead...
Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
Naw, think of it this way: you have an arm, a leg, a head, an id, an ego, and a chainsaw massacre. I think it works fine. Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
No, a chainsaw massacre inside. As in, the potential for one.
[ March 11, 2004, 09:19 PM: Message edited by: Anthro ]
Posted by Da_Goat (Member # 5529) on :
"Naw, think of it this way: you have an arm, a leg, a head, an id, an ego, and a chainsaw massacre." I think that should be the opening line.
Of course, I'm assuming this will be for next week, since this week is almost over.
Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
Your line, definitely. And I guess we all just have an early start, then.
Posted by fiazko (Member # 5812) on :
Is that your final answer? Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
Yeah. And now we've got a good few stored up for the next few weeks, possibly.
[ March 12, 2004, 10:21 AM: Message edited by: Anthro ]
Posted by skillery (Member # 6209) on :
bump
I guess that last challenge phrase was less than inspiring. Shall we try another?
Posted by Shan (Member # 4550) on :
How about something having to do with elderly drivers and big white vans. *grumpily*
Posted by The Thnikkaman (Member # 6330) on :
I had one about half ready for the chainsaw line. But then I went on vacation. I just have to finish it and I'll post it.
Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
We could use a line from an Ae short story:
When I woke at noon, my mother was eating the banister.
Posted by fiazko (Member # 5812) on :
Works for me:
When I woke at noon, my mother was eating the banister. The banister that I used to slide down when I was younger. On my butt. My bare butt. Just after I had slipped through her fingers in the middle of my nightly bath. No matter how hard she tried to restrain me, I'd wiggle out of her grasp, leap to the landing and hop on the banister, momentum and a layer of soap propelling me along the smooth, hard lacquer. I hated baths back then. No, not really. I just enjoyed tormenting my mother. How fitting that my past behavior was now biting me in the ass.
From the landing, I watched. Mother stood just above the coiled base of the rail, gnawing away in her thin salmon-colored robe. Her feet were bare, and her bony hands gripped two of the support posts. She chomped voraciously at the dark-stained wood, chipping away at the dull, worn finish. At least she always chose the same spot.
I sighed and went to the bathroom for a towel. I knew better than to physically remove her from her task. One bite from those spring-loaded jaws was a lesson learned instantly. I chose a towel that knew the banister well and, oddly enough, was much the same color as her robe. Silently, I padded down the carpeted steps until I was directly behind her. Short as my arms were, I had no trouble reaching around her -- without penetrating her oblivion -- and slipping the towel over the rail. Every so often, I knew, she would lift her head to turn it and chew from the other side of her mouth. I waited for such a moment, and when it came, I slid the towel into place over the teeth marks. Mother showed no awareness of the change in texture. I rounded the banister and tied the towel in place. Then I went back to bed.
I woke again at five. Mother was still at the banister. She’d stopped gnawing, but her teeth were clamped on the towel as tightly as her hands held the posts. I didn’t bother to sigh or to get dressed or to tiptoe down the steps. Soon, Mother would snap out of it. . .and she would be hungry.
Posted by Scythrop (Member # 5731) on :
That, Fiazko, is awesome.
I'm not even sure if I'm game to enter, now.
Posted by fiazko (Member # 5812) on :
Thanks, Scythrop. Although, please enter. This is one activity that I want to keep alive.
Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
Nice work, fiazko. Although it's kind of a horrid image you painted. Very nicely written.
I swear I'll post mine soon.
Posted by Jacare Sorridente (Member # 1906) on :
Well, it's more than 450 words, but here is my entry for the contest:
When I woke at noon, my mother was eating the banister, literally eating it. There were toothmarks scraped through the dark finish all around the ball on top of the newel post. She was crying and wailing and gnawing all at the same time. There were slivers embedded in her lips with small trickles of blood making a kind of smeary lipstick across her mouth. The sight of it made me sick to my stomach as pity, revulsion and fear battled each other for control. My dad was in the front room watching TV and pretending not to hear the ear-splitting wailing. I wanted to do something, anything at all to get her to stop, but I just stood there with my fists clenching and unclenching, the sweat breaking out in rivulets and a queasy, dizzy feeling spreading through my body. At last I turned away from the scene and went into the living room. "Dad, mom's sick," I said. He ignored me. I stepped in front of the blaring television. "Dad, you gotta do something," I insisted. "m'watchin' a show," he grunted, craning his neck to try to see around me. The television announcer was extolling the virtues of some anti-depressant with only a three percent male impotency risk. I snapped off the television and crossed my arms. "She's real bad. You gotta do something now." "Damn bossy kids. Don't know their place. My father woulda..." he mumbled as he made his way to the bathroom like he was in a hurry to pee before the commercials ended and his show came back on. He poked a hypodermic through the seal on a small vial and pulled back on the plunger. Then he walked over to where mom was bashing her head on the spindles and grabbed her right arm. She shrieked and pulled her arm out of his grip causing him to drop the needle. He picked the needle up and casually belted her across the face to quiet her down. Her shrieks changed to desperate sobs and she sat limply as he brusquely seized her arm and stabbed her with the needle. He squeezed in the contents and then rushed back to his armchair, tossing the hypo toward the medical waste bin and missing. It went skittering across the tile floor to bank up against a pile of bloody bandages, empty pill bottles and other paraphernalia scattered in a dirty heap near the medical waste bin. Mom stopped crying and stood up from the floor. Her eyes had that dead zombie look she always got after she took her medicine. She wandered into the living room and sat down stiffly on the couch. "Mom, I'm hungry. What's for dinner?" I asked. "Wave yourself something," she replied distractedly in that dream voice that she always used now whenever she wasn't crying or screaming. The telephone rang and I went into the kitchen to answer it. It was the autoPharm calling, his white labcoat and glasses designed to convey authority and scientific knowledge. "I am calling to speak with Jana Endall, please," he said briskly. "I am Jana Endall," I replied. "Ah, Mrs. Endall, good to see you again," he said with a smile. "Please scan your ID for confirmation." I went to mom's purse and pulled out her ID card. I held it near the phone sensor. "Thank you Mrs. Endall," the autoPharm said. "I am calling because we have received a message from your child's teacher. It seems little Anita has been misbehaving. A stronger ADHD medicine has been requisitioned for your child." The autoPharm paused to wait for confirmation. I just stood there and stared at it. "Did you understand what I told you?" he asked. "Nod your head or say yes if you understand." I nodded my head dumbly, wondering what I had done to tip my teacher off. Then I remembered the biology lesson on Wednesday when I had tried to ask a question about metamorphosis. The teacher had gone into some kind of loop state where she couldn't respond and she couldn't continue the lesson. The IT had to come and reboot her before class could continue. The autoPharm smiled warmly. "Good," he said. "I am dispensing her prescription in the bathroom now. Make sure she takes three of the blue pills and one purple one each morning before school." With his message delivered the autoPharm disappeared and the Lawyer appeared. He spoke quickly and warned against possible induced psychosis, hallucination, neurological distress and coma if the prescribed dosage was exceeded or if the child was one of the unfortunate 18% who could not tolerate the drug. I went into the bathroom and poured the pills from the wall dispenser into the toilet and flushed. Then I stood in front of the mirror and practiced relaxing my face muscles and getting my zombie eyes right so I could convince my teacher that I was taking my medicine.
[ March 25, 2004, 04:18 PM: Message edited by: Jacare Sorridente ]
Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
Man, that's depressing. Nice work, Jacare. Geez. Posted by Jacare Sorridente (Member # 1906) on :
Thanks afr. I liked your cliffhanger with the earthen ball, too. I have to say that I am impressed generally with the level of writing to be found on this thread.
Posted by karen.elizabeth (Member # 6345) on :
My wordcount says 257.
*
When I woke at noon, my mother was eating the banister, chin tucked protectively down into her chest. Next to her, a series of gingerbread men and women, some baked, others still inside metal cookie utters, laid in obvious massacre, heads and limbs missing. The peppermint shingles were in shambles, scattered across the table as if by tornado.
"Mama?" I asked, approaching her with a hesitant step. She gave no answer but to raise her head, staring at me with starving eyes. On her cheeks, rivers of black blue (Almay; bought this Christmas by my brother and me) outlined every wrinkle she'd earned. "Mama, I need that for school."
She continued to eat, crumbs trailing out of the corner her mouth like a sad sort of Hansel and Gretal spoor. Follow the trail and be eaten. Her shoulders heaved as she began crying more heavily.
I noticed, behind the mascara, that her blush was on too ruddy. I went into the kitchen and wet a rag to clean her.
My brother Bobby came in, dirty with the morning's play.
"Hey, Jimmy," he said as he went into the athletic closet, pulling out a ball, bat, and glove. "You're up."
"Bobby, she's real bad. She's crying again."
"Mama's always crying." Bobby shrugged his shoulders as he said this, punching the inside of his glove with his right hand. "Hey, you wanna play ball?"
I threw one more glance over my shoulder at my mother, still sobbing herself into nothing.
"Sure," I answered, casting away the washcloth. "You pitching?"
*
(edited for a break between my note and the story; tense mistake.)
[ March 28, 2004, 01:22 AM: Message edited by: karen.elizabeth ]
Posted by Dan_raven (Member # 3383) on :
Worlds shortest:
When I woke up at noon, mother was eating the banister. Father was fly fishing from the front porch into his 1990 Chevy Astro Van's engine compartment, trying desperately to reel in a carburetor. Tom, my younger brother, was flying around the chimney playing tag with the bats, robins, and occasional flying mole.
It was only when Celia came up and kissed me, hard and long and indecently insistent that I realized the truth. Despite the salmon ice-cream dripping from the cone I had bought from the May-tag Repairman, I hadn't really woken up at noon after all.
Posted by Scythrop (Member # 5731) on :
364 words, and not my best work, I'm afraid. Apologies in advance for bad shaggy dog stories....
*
When I woke at noon, mother was eating the banister. Not that I noticed, at first. That it was the banister, specifically. She’d been at it for so long, after all, that really it could have been any part of the house. It didn't matter. It was only hours later, when she’d chewed all the way to the top and into the load bearing wall, and the living room roof began to sag, that I started to pay attention.
“Don’t you think this has gone on long enough?”
She didn’t stop chewing, but at least took the time to look up at me through a mouth full of splinters, and for a moment, I could see the star she once had been, that wistful smile that used to pack out the theatres and light up the marquees.
“ith the printhiple ofth the thimg”
“Fine then.” I shrugged. There was clearly no arguing with her. Instead, I went upstairs , packed my few possessions into an old sports bag and carried it outside. On the front lawn, I sat on my old tyre swing under the Moreton Bay fig. It’d been years since I’d sat here. My bag on the ground beside me, I watched the house. There was a definite tilt to the roofline, now.
In the street behind me, a car pulled up and my father materialised beside me.
“She still at it?”
“Yep.”
He shook his head, sadly. At that moment, with a creak, the backbone of the old house finally gave way, and the whole building seemed to pause, just for a moment, indecisive, before making up its mind and folding down upon itself. It was weird – despite all the crashing and crunching, the collapse sounded more like a sigh of relief than anything else.
“There you go, then.” Dad scratched his chin, reflective for a moment. Recalling their whirlwind marriage, and that terrible day when he, her husband and producer, had fired her – his own wife. Remembering the terrible promise she’d screamed at him as she stormed from the theatre. “She always said she’d do it in the end.”
She sure had. It had taken years, but Mum had finally bought the house down.
Edit: Continuity problem found and fixed
[ March 25, 2004, 07:54 PM: Message edited by: Scythrop ]
Posted by imogen (Member # 5485) on :
Sure, it's a Shah Guido G, but it made me laugh.
Guess we must have a similar sense of humour or something.
Posted by fiazko (Member # 5812) on :
Dan:
Thanks for the nod, afr. It's good to see the other stories, though. Can't let my head get too big. More! More!
Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
It was a good shaggy dog story, scythrop. Well-paced.
Posted by Jacare Sorridente (Member # 1906) on :
Give it a few more days and this thread will cover the width and breadth of all Sci-fi story types. Next we need a cyber-punk one with lots of drugs and slang.
Karen.elzabeth- If those kids are smart they will stay away from the oven.
Scy- Shaggy dogs rule, but don't you mean brought the house down?
[ March 26, 2004, 08:45 AM: Message edited by: Jacare Sorridente ]
Posted by Scythrop (Member # 5731) on :
You know something... I've been making that mistake ever since third grade. You get the drift though...
Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
All right, I know the chainsaw massacre phrase is old news, but nobody wrote a story for it, and I've had one I've been working on for a long time. Here it is. It's a bit too long, but only by about 50 words. It's still fairly rough, but I didn't feel like editing it any more.
I started it with a whole different bent, but this is the only way I could get it to work. It's kind of a take-off on another character I'm developing.
******** Deep inside every person is a chainsaw massacre struggling to get out. You can keep it down deep, or you can let it out little by little, carefully.
You could call me a proactive arborist, I guess. I'll go out of my way to get rid of sick trees. I'll even do it for free. The tall elm in the backyard of 3427 Woodland is deathly ill, and it's getting all the other trees sick. It needs to come down. I've taken my truck all the way out there a few times and knocked on the door. The rest of the trees back there are beautiful. I can almost hear them calling for some kind of help. But Mrs. Gum won't hear of it. Not even when I beg her. She says her father planted that tree.
I come back from 3427 Woodland and I stand in our doorway. I don't expect any comfort. The last time Deli ever gave me any comfort, she was stroking my hair as I lay in her lap. She said, "It didn't bring her back, did it?" in a gentle voice. But this is one of those weekends when Deli thinks I'm going to haul out my chainsaw on her. So I stand in the doorway for a moment, and then I slump back out to my truck.
Deli's the only other person in the world who knows about Allen Joseph Whitaker. She was with him one night when he crept his car down the logging trail. She never made a sound when he got her out, but she jumped when I started my saw. Back then, I was a scout for the logging company. I had a long chainsaw that could snarl like a beast. It had a long reach and I could hold it steady at arm's length even at a dead run.
When I came back to cut her wrists free, the first thing she did was shove me away and run around Allen's car to hide. But I coaxed her out, and I told her about Alyssa and some of the other women before her, and about why I knew Allen would be coming down that old logging road. I don't know if she was happy or angry with me after that, but she came when I asked her to, and we walked back down that logging road together, back to where I hid my truck.
In the cool of the night I park my truck in front of 3427 Woodland. I set up the ropes and pulleys and I climb up the tree that Mrs. Gum's father planted, and I start sawing with my handsaw. Around the time the sun comes up, I'm down to the main trunk. People are getting up anyway, so I start up the chainsaw and start lopping off big chunks of trunk. About four cuts later, there's the policeman with Mrs. Gum standing behind him in tears. So I lower myself down and set my saw carefully on one section of trunk. Then I kneel beside another section of trunk, and I show them what was happening inside the tree.
Posted by skrika03 (Member # 5930) on :
:bump: for AFR. It was right at the top of page 2, dude.
Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
And on the top of page 2 it stayed.
OK, I admit, in my vanity I phantom bumped the thread. Is this the penalty for doing that now?
Posted by karen.elizabeth (Member # 6345) on :
Scy, I loved your last line! :-)
Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
*bump*
Now come on, I burn myself out trying to make that thing semi-coherent, the least you could do is critique it. Do you get it? Do you still want closure? Do you like the POV?
Posted by fiazko (Member # 5812) on :
Interesting, afr. I think I need to read it again at some point to give you a decent critique, but I like it.
Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
Aaahhh, feedback, keep it coming. Posted by fallow (Member # 6268) on :
The sea was filled with angry monkeys. Or, it should have been.
Schofield woke to the lapping of the waves against the hull. His hand clapped over the cap covering his face, pulling it down snug. Blot out the sun. Return to the monkeys.
Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
I suppose this will be due a week from now. I'm writing something up right now.
Posted by Anthro (Member # 6087) on :
450 words exactly. I guess this isn't really eligible for the context because I came up with the phrase, but I enjoyed writing it. *** When I woke at noon, my mother was eating the banister. She was actually rather far in. There were only a few feet left, up at the top of the stairs.
Mother was making an incredible effort. But still . . . “Mom, don’t you think this whole thing is rather silly? I mean, I know, if a spy gets captured, he’s supposed to swallow the codebook, but that doesn’t mean we have to eat the place.”
“It’s vitally important we destroy the evidence.” I had to strain to understand what she said, as her mouth was full of polished oak. “Robbery is a serious legal offense.”
“The people who live here will be waking up soon, and they’ll call the cops. Doesn’t that make the whole thing kind of moot?” I scuffed my toe impatiently on the stair.
“No dear, your father is gnawing their toes off. They won’t be able to walk to the phone.” She spat out a large chunk of iron. “Imagine. A banister with an iron rod inside it. These people should be ashamed.”
“Mom—“
“You know, you could put in a bit more effort. Like your brother. You know he got up at six this morning and ate all their living room furniture?”
“Mom—“
“You’re never putting an honest effort into the family business, you know. Ever since you were old enough to eat most pinewood, you never really tried to help out.”
“Mom, how about I get started on the bedroom furniture? How’s that?”
She didn’t respond; understandable. She was attempting to navigate a difficult twist near the top, but she gave me an encouraging thumbs-up.
I passed the master bedroom of the house as I walked down the hall. The door was half open, and I could see the occupants of the house’s terrified expressions as my dad gnawed energetically at their toes. He was making good progress, and I’m sure he would have gotten much further had he taken off their slippers. Leather, you know. My father’s teeth were never quite as sturdy as my mother’s.
The room I had spent the night in was pleasant, painted an airy blue. I was disappointed to see my brother chipping doggedly away at the paint with his front teeth. At least I had some of the more valuable jewelry and money hidden in my pockets. That, too, was evidence, and would have to be destroyed if my parents found out about it. If it weren’t for the small sums of money I had stashed away, our family wouldn’t have been able to put food on the table. Not that anyone but me ate the food. But someone has to buy the new table, right?
Posted by advice for robots (Member # 2544) on :
Hah, very good, Anthro!
So far, the "Mother eating the banister" stories have been uniformly depressing and/or horrifying ala Kafka.
I think the only way to make it not depressing is to make the POV a termite.
Fallow, I didn't understand your post at all.
Posted by fallow (Member # 6268) on :
The sea was filled with angry monkeys. Or, it should have been.
Schofield woke to the lapping of the waves against the hull. His hand clapped over the cap covering his face, pulling it down snug. Blot out the sun. Return to the monkeys.
Parks paced up and down the length of the ship, checking that everything was in order. Schofield, sure. Lazing about. The captain, as usual, gone missing. The ship, taking it's turn into the mouth of that ugly deluge. It was almost too much for him to take. Couldn't anyone hear it? Those teeth? That constant gnawing. The captain's precious cargo would soon be let out of the ship of their own accord if they didn't complete this fool's errand.
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TimeTim![[Grumble]](graemlins/grumble.gif)
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Very nicely written.![[Laugh]](graemlins/laugh.gif)