Posts Tagged ‘story’

It's 7:34 in the morning, and the water has reached the edge.

My alarm went off four minutes ago, just like I told it to, but my position has not changed.. This is not unusual, and it is in fact exactly why I set my alarm for half an hour earlier than I need to get up. You do what you gotta do.

It's also why I have problems sleeping with anybody else since bedmates are usually shaking and kicking me by the time I've hit the snooze alarm three times. Especially since, well, you know those alarm clocks that wake you with the gentle sound of soft summer breezes whispering over a bubbling brook? Mine isn't one of those alarm clocks. Mine is the kind you could put on the bank of a rocky coast to warn off approaching ships. I have it on my headboard, about six inches from my ear, and even with that I still wake up once or twice a week when my neighbors bang on my walls or the police intervene.

It's 7:36, and the water is starting to drip. Read the rest of this entry »

Some time ago in the Hatrack forum, a writing challenge was issued: write a 450 word short story that began with "The sea was filled with angry monkeys." Who can resist? Here's mine:

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 shouted 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 instantaneous 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, confused. 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 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.

Decades ago Frank Miller turned the comics world around, rejuvenating tired heroes like Daredevil and Batman with the gritty, stylistic violence he later brought to his own gritty, fictional dystopia "Sin City." But few people know that Frank Miller was once asked to apply his magic to another once-popular institution.

EXT: NIGHT. We're on a dark, dirty street, looking over a trench-coated shoulder at a body spilling out of an overturned trashcan. Clumps of green fur are everywhere. Lightning turns the scene into a stark, black and white nightmare.

FROG: He wasn't much of a friend, but me and him were here from the beginning and that's important and now he's gone and I have to do something about it, something loud and violent and messy. No sunny days, not anymore. I've been a reporter, a TV show host, and a banjo-player, but now I'm vengeance.

In the alleyway nearby, a 7-foot bird sobs over a large, dark mound. Tears streak down his insane yellow face as he mutters.

BIRD: You can see him, can't you? Everyone can see him now, so why isn't he breathing? Snuffy? You can see him, right? Right?

FROG: I was wrong, it wasn't murder. It was war. Or maybe muppecide. I don't know how many are already down, but I know one thing for sure–

Lightning cuts across the sky with a loud crack.

FROG: –someone out there is keeping count.

Read the rest of this entry »

It was a nice little café, perched on the waterfront and open to the sky. Kind of an old Italian style, or as close as can be managed in Fort Lauderdale. Simple white furniture and ivy all over everything, with small tables stretched along the ocean shore and roasted garlic in the air and the hinted suggestion that any second now the pope might stop in for a bite. I had never been here before but that was fitting because the café had been suggested by the love of my life, whom I had also never met before.

I had never been so nervous in my entire life.

“So,” came a voice from above. “You got your exit strategy ready?”

It wasn’t the pope, unless His Holiness was picking up some extra bucks working tables in his spare time. “Excuse me?” I said.

“You’re here to meet a girl, am I right? Someone you really like, but have never seen?” Read the rest of this entry »

Better Than Real Products, Ltd.
4545 Industrial Park
DeKalb, IL 60115

To Whom It May Concern,

Recently I purchased your marital aid product, "Slutty Suzy," as a present for a friend. This product was presented in your catalog as "better than the real thing, and always ready when you are."

I feel certain this is the case, because he won't touch it. Whereas the model pictured on the box is devastatingly beautiful and achingly luscious, the product inside more closely resembles something one might use to make dental casts. Hardly an object of desire, even if it didn't smell like vulcanized rubber. Also, the pubic hair fell off. Read the rest of this entry »

I'm not sure if it could be considered a mansion, but the Sarmecki place was big enough to house a small war in the parlor without waking anyone in the garage. This said good things about my future bank account, provided I lived long enough to enjoy it.

A butler who wasn't impressed by my tie, my face, and possibly nothing else since the Renaissance ushered me through a set of doors barely large enough to admit a beer truck. Inside was opulence, rich tapestries, thick Oriental rugs, and enough expensive knick-knacks to outfit a fair-sized pyramid. The only thing I didn't see in that room was a swimming pool; I guess you have to skimp somewhere.

There was a figure silhouetted in front of the roaring fireplace, and unless Theodore Sarmecki had very unusual tastes in evening wear, I had guessed wrong about the identity of my client. Read the rest of this entry »

The first thing Victor noticed when he got home from work was the number of cars on his lawn.

The second thing, after he circled his block twice and finally, cursing, settled on parking around the corner and trudging back through the cold, was the number of flower arrangements in his front window. Baskets, wreaths, and other assortments filled the space, making it impossible to see inside.

He hadn't forgotten a party, had he? This was all he needed after another goddamn twelve-hour day at work.. He and Carrie used to socialize quite a bit but lately neither of them had been very outgoing. Too damn tired, Victor would say, and she'd grimly agree. Then he'd grab a six-pack, hit his favorite chair, and try to make the day go away.

He stopped at his door and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Close up, he could read the message on some of the wreaths. "Our Deepest Sympathies," one said.

*Oh Christly crap on a polo pony, someone died,* thought Victor, panicking. All of his fatigue faded away in the cold rush of panic. One of the kids? His mom? Carrie? No way, no way in fucking hell could that have happened and no one told him, just couldn't happen. His heart racing, Victor grabbed the doorknob and yanked the door open. Read the rest of this entry »

[We see a smartly dressed, impeccably groomed young man sitting in his living room. He is surrounded by elegant furnishings and exquisite objets d'art, but still he is anxious and fidgety. We hear his voiceover as the camera pans around the room.]

LUCIUS: I thought I had a good life, I truly did. And I've found the perfect man in Dominic. [The camera focuses on a portrait of Dominic. He is pleasant looking and trim.] We've been just darling for each other, but lately he's been drifting away from me. I'm afraid I'm just not… masculine… enough for him. I've heard rumors he's been seen hanging around biker bars and Young Republican rallies, and I'm terrified I'll lose him. [The camera returns to Lucius, who looks imploringly at us.] Please help me become more manly?

[Instantly the screen explodes with the stylized logo: a chrome wrench smashed through a beer can. The call goes out and we are introduced to the F-ed-Up Five: Tom, who's in charge of grooming (he's seen digging intently at something in his ear, with a barbecue fork), Dave, the interior decorator (as he pushes more dirty clothing under his bed until it achieves vertical), Meat, the chef (seen pouring chili sauce into a bag of potato chips), Vinnie, who handles fashion (pictured making an original design by scrawling "I'd Like To Bang" in marker on a Britney Spears t-shirt), and Pete, the culture guy (shown at a strip club shoving the dancer out of the way so he can see the game). The Five shamble down the street towards us, belching, until Pete kicks the camera over.

We cut to the Five climbing into a decrepit Ford truck (after a brief fistfight for "shotgun") and driving off in a cloud of thick black smoke.

Read the rest of this entry »

Coming soon, the last installment of the blockbuster Harry Potter series: Harry Potter and the Unquenchable Fire!

Millions of glazy-eyed people, young and old alike, have been captivated by the adventures of this young wizard and his friends. Each book has taken you through Harry's life as he escapes from life with the dreadful Dursleys to learn about magic at the amazing Hogwart's Academy of Wizardry.

Unless you're a hopeless pathetic loser Muggle you know how Harry has progressed in power and skill every year, always triumphing over the sneaky Slytherin House and thwarting the plans of the evil dark wizard, Lord Voldemort, with his own courage and the help of his loyal friends Ron and Hermione.

Now it's Harry's 18th birthday, it's his last year at Hogwart's, and the fun is just beginning! Read the rest of this entry »

The place: a popular, very busy buffet restaurant in the Orlando area.

The time: 3:30 in the afternoon, yesterday.

The participants: me and Teresa.

Teres came back from the starch bar (potatoes, macaroni and cheese, lard) to find me sitting quietly with a bemused expression. Correctly fearing what I might be thinking, she asked me anyway.

"I've been sitting here watching the crowds pass by, and I've come to a startling realization."

"And that is?"

"I've seen maybe 400 people walk past me, and not a single person in this entire place has breasts anywhere near as perfect as yours."

She laughed out loud once before clapping her hands over her mouth and quivering a bit. She turned a bit pink, from muscle control or embarrassment or pleasure (or all three), and finally got enough air to say, "excuse me? You've been sitting here checking out tits?"

"Of course. And while no one could possibly match yours in all ways, there's usually quite a few passable ones, often in pairs."

"While I'm here."

"No, of course not. That would be unspeakably rude. I do it when you're away from the table."

"Oh. Okay. And nothing's hitting tonight?"

"It's a little scary, actually. It's not just because it's Sunday and everyone's in their church clothes, I'm used to allowing for that. Watch, see what I mean."

"I am not going to look at women's chests! I've got food, here."

"Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt your ceremony." A few moments went by, while I carefully did not notice how her eyes followed the passersby. Finally she dropped her fork and turned to me

"Great, now I can't keep myself from checking out every woman that I see, no matter what she looks like, to try and figure out what her boobs look like!'

"Ha! Welcome to my world."

"It is pretty sad, isn't it?"

"My world? I dunno, it's not that…"

"No, silly, I meant you're right, there are no good tits here."

"Saw a maybe-okay set over by the dessert bar."

"Where?"

"Over there, in the overalls and white lace t-shirt."

"Hmm. Smaller than mine."

"Basketballs are smaller than yours. I don't look for better, I was just surprised at the average low quality of jugs in the room. You think it's because it's St. Patrick's Day, all the nice ones are out partying?"

"Well, as long as we're objectifying people…"

"It's okay, you can't objectify people, you're a girl. All the feminists say so."

"Uh huh. But she's not that bad, unless it's just the bra."

"You learn to allow for that. She's wearing a back-clasp, padded, defnitely not a WonderBra. C cup, but those doesn't deserve more than a B."

She looked at me for a few seconds before answering. "Made a study of this, have you? What brand?"

"I'm not that obsessive about it."

"Well, good."

"Probably a Warner, though."

"So does she meet approval?"

"As long as I'm being a complete pig about it, no. Too droopy, without the bra she'd be swinging."

"And that writes her off for you?"

"As a person? Not at all. As a sexual partner? Not at all, I pay a lot more attention to a woman's laugh than her tits. Well, more, anyway. As a walking piece of art? Yeah, probably. Remember, I sleep next to the best, I have very high standards."

"That's true."

"Ha! You admit it! You're gorgeous!"

"Nope, I just recognize that you have a serious mental delusion that happens to work in my favor. I droop more than she does."

"Do not. I'll bet she's got those tennis-ball-in-a-sock kind of tits."

"Want me to go ask?"

"All I'm doing is sharing an observation with you. Sharing my interests, you know."

"I don't share that interest, thank you."

"Oh yeah? What'd you think of the girl in the tank top, purple jeans shorts?"

"Not bad, B cup but nicely shaped. Pointy nipples."

"HA! Knew it. You scoped her out."

"Did not. I saw her in the bathroom earlier."

"Before I even brought the whole thing up! You lech, you."

"Shut up, I just noticed. Women notice each other, you know."

"No, but I'm learning. Tell me, woman are really all bisexual, aren't they?"

"What? No!"

"C'mon. All my life I was sure that woman all touched each other in the bathroom. I always figured that was why mom came out of there so fast."

"Sorry to burst your pubescent bubble…"

"No, no, it's all right. I just need a moment alone…"

"G'head, I'm busy looking for hooters. How about those?"

"Where… the one in the black dress? Okay I guess, they just look…"

"What? Square? Too light? Not green yet?"

"Mushy."

"Mushy."

"Yeah, mushy. Not firm. If she laid on her back they'd be in her armpits."

"I don't believe you're that shallow!"

"But I'm not, and you know it. I don't really judge people like that, but when I see people I make little mental notes about 'em. And you're the only person I'm comfortable enough around to share them with."

"I guess I'm honored."

"You should be. We do spend a lot of time making fun of other people. It's drawn us closer, in a way."

"Us against them?"

"Me, you, and your perfect tits against them."

"They are not perfect, they droop."

"We've been there already. Excuse me, sir?"

The guy at the table next to us looked over, surprised. "Yes?"

"I've been telling my wife that her breasts are ideal, but she thinks I'm too biased. Would you mind?"

"Oh god…"

"Sit up straight, hon, this has to be fair."

"Um, well, they look great to me."

"Told you! Thank you sir, I appreciate it."

"I'm going to kill you as soon as I figure out what would hurt the most."

"Slow suffocation between perfect breasts?"

"Nah, mushy ones would work better for that. Hang on, I'm going to go find that woman…"

"Okay, but I don't want to be resuscitated. No telling what I might wake up to."

"Never mind. I'd rather let you live and someday maybe outgrow your shallow ways."

"This from the woman who told me it was a good thing the Fed-Ex guy has such a great ass, cuz he didn't have the brains of a biscuit?"

"I never said that!"

"No, you sent it to me through ICQ."

"But I never said it."

"Are we done here?"

"Sounds like it. C'mon, let's go home and use some heroic measures."

"You're gonna make me wear the little brown shorts again, aren't you?"

"Yep, but I'll wear that halter top you like. Be sure to leave a nice tip, our waitress has a great rack."