Thursday, October 30, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Markey Mark is our highlighted entry this week. I totally dug his descriptions of the cigarettes and how white his knuckles were, among other things. Mark painted a fascinating scene by simply using descriptive words. Great job, Mark.
By Mark H.
Darryl jammed the stick into drive, smashed the accelerator to the floor, his thick fingers turning white as he gripped the searing hot steering wheel. Cold ashes fell from the open ash tray. Jagged tears in the weathered vinyl seats gnawed at his legs as he fought to control the fish-tailing car.
Darryl had just jumped to warp speed as he reluctantly left the last session of the 42nd annual Star Trek Convention. For a brief few minutes longer, he was not Darryl, he was Captain James Kirk, brilliant commander, supremely confident, the ultimate player.
Soon, only Darryl would arrive at his empty one bedroom apartment, alone once more.
Gimme some more...
By Linda Gail A.
“Hold it right there.”
A light flashes and I hear the camera click.
“Perfect! You can come out now.”
I duck out from behind the cardboard cutout that resembled my first car to watch as my photo is downloaded into a computer and then emerges slowly from a digital printer. I pay the outrageous fee and take my now cardboard framed photo. I glance at it and happy memories surge back.
“Man, back then I was going somewhere,” I think.
I sadly shake my head and shuffle away to climb into the bus to take me to the nursing facility I now call home.
The Practical Joke
His tires spinning gravel, Jocko wished he’d spent the money on those Goodyear retreads. The Chrysler 380 short block had enough power to get him out of here, if he could only get some traction. Finally hitting the tarmac, Jocko smiled; he’d be almost to Galveston when the barn blew.
It had been a while since Jocko’d done any demolition work, but it all came back; the smell of the powder, the cool touch of the blasting caps, the curious combination of calm and butterflies as he wired the final connection. Jocko started humming, imagining Brian’s face when he found his barn spread over half of Brazoria County.
You Get Your One Chance and You Better Not Blow It
By: Jerry H.
The blonde had left him. Stupid old biddy anyway, paying him to cruise the Sunset Strip each evening. Fourty six years is a long time to drive the same stretch of avenue looking for testosterone infected young men, Oh God night after night why?
He came to California to be a movie star, now the only part available, a corpse on CSI Vegas. They were paying drivers in Bagdad ungodly amounts of money; a little adventure and then retirement. He was leaving this life behind, the memories and dreams of that American Graffiti weekend were just nightmares now.
By: Jenny S.
Thoughts raced thru Bobby Joe’s head as he pressed harder on the gas pedal.
“Six months of my life I gave up for this stupid pig squealing contest. I dropped everything that was important to me – my mistress, my job…”
Truth be told, Bobby Joe didn’t really have all that much going for him beforehand. His ‘mistress’ was his favorite dancer at Boobs, Boobs, Boobs and by ‘job’, Bobby meant whatever he hadn’t gotten bored with yet.
The first person to have a pig come up and hump their leg won Pig Squealing contest and $500. Bobby Joe just ended up with stained jeans and his photo in the newspaper.
Car Ride Home
By: Randy H.
Larry's car hummed a deep growl as it idled in front of room 12A. He waits for her. This is not the first time; in fact, they had grown accustomed to these secret encounters. Larry flicks the gray head off his cigarette and draws in another dose. As the nicotine mixes with the idle fumes, his mind suddenly begins to race. The muscles in his gut tighten and guilt overwhelms. Larry curses himself wondering why he cannot control his urges. Frustrated, he turns up the radio trying to kill the conviction and fear. Still waiting for her, the conviction and fear win out. Larry revs the engine and drives home.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
Apparently our amazingly awesome photo intimdated a few folks. Not as many entries as I was hoping for.
By the way, is that not totally a young John Tesh in the photo?
Isaac S. wrote the highlighted entry for this week. I could appreciate his story because his "awesome story" had a bit of uppercrust to it. It was a different spin than most of the other stories and I could appreciate that.
By: Isaac S.
In an attempt to show his republican friends just how awesome diversity can be, Brad organized the first ever “international and minority students against big government” picnic.
“Sure you can lure in those types by offering something for free,” scoffed Brad’s frat brother Graham, “but try asking them to a potluck event and see who shows.”
Brad didn’t listen to Graham’s cynicism. He knew on campus there had to be more people than just his clique who wanted economic deregulation, low taxes, and babies to live. He wanted to help maintain individual freedom, he didn’t care who brought the drinks and desserts. And besides, the Asian chick is hot.
Gimme some more...
By: Brad Wise
So I said, "Bro, no way." And he was all, "I'm serious, man. Step off." So I stepped off. For like two seconds cuz his girlfriend was all, "Yeaaaaaaaaaah, step off." And you guys know me. I take karate. Two belts away from black belt. Depending on this Saturday’s meet. So obviously I'm all about respect and that kind of stuff. But you have to give me respect in order to get it. Right? So I said, “Listen, you better…” and just when I was about to roundhouse her boyfriend, Mr. Lemmerman came up and cooled things down. Lucky for them. My roundhouse is wicked lately.
Me, Myself & I
By: Randy H.
As my body lay motionless in the hot desert, dying of dehydration; my only thought was of my mother. I knew I wouldn't allow a crashed plane and a hundred miles of burning sand to be the final adventure in her son's life. So I assembled every ounce of strength my bleeding, naked body could muster and crawled three days and two nights from the edge of utter death to a port where I found refuge. I wasn't one of the lucky ones. I survived because my wits are keen and my body extraordinarily conditioned. Humbly speaking, I'm just a man. I'm a survivor!
By: Linda Gail A.
It sounds like I’m bragging, but the truth is I have a secret to my success as an awesome guy. It’s my secret weapon; my hair. You see, a properly coiffed do is the essential ingredient to being cool and thus being awesome. You start with clean hair, and then apply some mouse before pulling out the straightening iron. That should be enough to hold everything in place, but I find that a mega-hold hairspray finishes the job. Perfect hair is all the attraction that ladies need, if you know what I mean. Suddenly, you are one awesome dude. Trust me, it’s the hair!
By Mark H.
Hey, Tommy… HEY! Look at me while I’m talking. Last night at the game, I was throwing the football 100 yards just warming up. Dude, my arm’s a howitzer. Julie, I see your eyes. Why are you looking at Jermaine? You should have seen me calling the plays. Coach trusts me to call the plays. The team loves my plays. Shelley, why are you laughing? Coach lets me run the ball too. My legs are friggin’ rockets, man. Nobody can touch me when I run the ball. Are you listening?? Coach says he’s never seen anything like me. Who won? Oh, we lost. The team sucks.
Words To Live By
By: Jenny S.
The words flowed like honey from John Tesh’s mouth. Stories of beating seemingly impossible odds of chunky glasses, badly gelled hair and braces.
“You know, one day in 7th grade it occurred to me. Anybody can be cool, but it takes practice to be awesome.”
The mouths of all who had gathered dropped at the sound of this epiphany.
“You start calling people by nicknames. It makes the public feel special. I started calling myself ‘The Teshter’. Talk with your hands. It gives the appearance of paying attention. Always sound confident, but not cocky. Oh, and I started bleaching my hair. I’m practically a Ken Doll now.”
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
Hans & Jerrold
by Russ B.
Hans's attractive legs brought him more work, but Jerrold believed his hands were better than anyone's. ...and took great pains to protect them.
"Hans can only dream of skilled hands... if Hans can dream", thought Jerrold.
Hans was a pretty boy, airhead type. Jerrold had to keep reminding him that boxing was only PR, and to stop hitting him in the face.
It was no longer fun rooming together.
Hans dreamed only of lunch. “Mmm...beer and bratwurst” (which would eventually become his downfall).
Jerrold knew “Hands may be great, but if face looks like cauliflower, you lose job!.” The super model game in Prague was cut-throat.
Gimme some more...
by Linda Gail A.
Sven joined our family at age 29. He never bonded with anyone at the orphanage, and his counselors thought it best he start over and relearn connection. Only, Sven has an issue with touching people. So we went sent him out to buy gloves for all of us. But I guess we didn’t explain very well. We ended up with boxing gloves. Mother and Father made us pose for a picture. Our arms touched, Sven hyperventilated and we had to send him back to his institution. But I’ll always have the photo of us to remember him by.
It’ll be a cake-walk, Jocko said. We’ll go a few rounds, make some cash money; a C-note each, maybe better. He forgets we haven’t sparred since that rigged fight in Nevada. Even more, he forgets what he took that night. He’s good at forgetting. Not me, not after he left Reno with Belinda. Sure, Jocko’s played it cool, cucumber cool, but I’ll get mine. Once that flash goes off, he’ll start prancing for the press and wham… flat on his mug. The reporters will all laugh and he’ll wail “Who tied my shoes?” like some wheezy old broad. Serve him right, after Reno.
by Mark H.
The photo sits on my dresser, alongside pictures of my wife and kids and grandkids. Mutt and Jeff, they called us. We terrorized the girls in 1st grade together and graduated from high school together, class of ‘41. After Pearl Harbor we joined up together.
Every soldier did time in the ring, but Lenny never was any good at it. He really didn’t want to hurt anyone. Always wore that goofy grin and curly mop of hair. No scholar, either, but his heart of gold tipped the scales. Three weeks after we shipped out, Lenny died from enemy bullets carrying me to safety. That was just the way he was.
Memoir of a Hero
by Randy H.
We were in the best shape of our lives back then. Dick and I thought we knew it all; ready to conquer anything or anybody in our way. We were stationed together when the war broke. The war – it made us feel weak and alone. All we had was a shared responsibility to serve our country and the companionship of one another. Dick was my best friend. I razzed him because he was a slow, bowlegged son of a German immigrant. If I wasn't so much like my father, Dick would have known how much I loved him. Maybe things would have been different between us.
Not By Blood
By: Mary F.
The nursing home called. He died peacefully. “Cremate him and send the ashes.” I said.
There are personal items. “Give them away”.
They sent the picture anyway. The one he always carried with him. “My boy and I,” he would tell his patients, new and old.
I loved that summer we boxed together at Randall’s gym. I loved the hikes we took, the evenings he taught me pool and poker.
“There is something you should know”, Mother said after his stroke. “He’s not your father. One of us was infertile.”
I traced my fingers over the image of his big ears, dark kinky curls, the dear face of my father.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
An old lady, her daughter and grandchild go outside for some fresh air. That's the basic premise. However, watch the video and see how the story creator wove a plain basic idea into something unexpected.
Never forget the element of surprise.
And if you're really an overachiever, check out this link:
Monday, October 6, 2008
* By the way, for anyone who is just checking our site, we've begun to add little prompts in each week as well as sticking with the 110 words or less, due by Monday at 11am deal. For example, this past week each story had to have a conflict dealing with fish somehow. Coolness, I know. *
Brad W. is our highlighted story of the week. His conflict was subtle, but it reminded me a lot of how a man's mind functions. I may be sexist here, but I thought he hit the nail on the head. In his entry, you understood where he was at, why the character was there and what he was doing.
When you describe the whole picture, your readers can grasp on and enjoy the journey with you.
by Brad W.
Derrick sits in his brother's room digesting two quarter-pounder meals and 13 cigarettes. He wants to watch television. He wants Randy to come home and find the remote so he can watch television. He considers regurgitating the McBeef and hiding it in the hamper. He stares at his crotch and wonders if that’d make him bulimic. Stupid Randy and his faggy feelings. He probably hid the remote on purpose. Derrick scans the room for a pen. The desire to write an apology battles the desire to sleep. “Randy, sorry for not taking you fishing yesterday. My bad. Next time, ok?” He decides not to yell at him for the remote.
Little Bud By: Mary F.
“This can be an amicable divorce. Our firm can handle everything” her lawyer said.
“Ok by me, I replied. She can have the house, my 401K, and the cars. All I want is Little Bud.”
I knew she never liked Little Bud, my gorgeous Copperbanded butterflyfish. Maybe she was jealous. I could sit for hours watching him diving between the rocks in the aquarium.
Finally the day arrived for me to pick him up.
“He’s had an accident,” she said when she came to the door.
Then I saw her cat puking up gold and bronze flaked vomit. I know it wasn’t an accident.He’s gone forever. I’m so sad.
By Mark H.
I’M creepy?! That pretentious little brat said I’M creepy! I spend an hour getting made up so I can entertain him and his little gang of cretins down at the Golden Arches, and he says I’m creepy. So anyway after he tells me this, somethin’ just snaps, and I grab the first Happy Meal I see – it’s a fish sandwich, heavy on the tartar sauce, lucky for me. So I mash it the little bugger’s face, wash his hair in the sauce.
Well, it did look kind of good, so I get one to go, with fries. Ahh, nothin’ like a good meal after a hard day’s work.
By: Linda Gail A.
“Are you eating again?”
“What’s it to you?” Bubba replies as he wraps his mouth around another McDonald’s Quarter Pounder, in no mood to be nagged.
“Your shorts don’t fit you anymore,” Bubba’s wife replies.
Bubba’s wife enters the room. “Your fish is hanging out,” she points. “Your shorts are too small.”
Bubba shrugs. “I said they’re fine.”“When you have a child pull the flower in your pocket and your drawstring pants fall as planned don’t call me from jail because your fish was hanging out.” She turns to walk from the room, but adds one last sage comment. “Buy bigger shorts.”
How the World Was Saved Through Pollution By: Jerry H.
BozotheEvil exhausted, superpower drained, fell into a sluggard heap to the floor like a pile of discarded washrags. As each cigarette burned it’s last he exploded a balloon, the reverberation comforting him, reminders of the sound of his impacting energy rays.
“BozotheGood imagining he could ruin my plans and save those starving super intelligent orphans with Fillet O’Fishes. I showed him, I showed him good.”
BozotheEvil enjoyed every bite of his spoils, 513-1/2 fried fish sandwiches; satisfied he fell asleep snoring like an idling bulldozer. Quietly the big sleep came, mercury poisoning, BozotheEvil had finally done something right in his life.
Untitled By: Deb F.
“That is IT!” swore Reggie. “That’s the last gig where I open for the pony.”
“You should make ‘em pay for the shoes,” said Tony, “It’s not easy to get dem clown shoes clean, y’know.”
“Nobody wants to see the clown anymore. They weren’t even watching me make the balloon animals.”
“Yeah, but you should get you some o’ dose long thin balloons. These round ones aren’t dat exciting.”
“No man, I think I lost them with the fish. Swallowing the goldfish used to have them riveted. But kids are jaded.”
“Probably the hormones in the fast food, man.”
“Pass me the Coke I gotta wash down Goldie."
The Plight Of A Clown By: Randy H.
"That John Denver is full of sh**"
The comedic line rolls from the TV as it pacifies Ralph with a movie he's seen dozens of times. It reminds him of his initial encounter with the McDonald's people. During the interview it was explained to him rather convincingly that this job would be much better than the one he had at Macy's. With this position he wouldn't have to take silly photographs with squirmy and annoying kids who beg for toys they know their parents will buy them.
Ralph ruminates, "What's worse; working 20 hours a week or eating these cold, leftover fish sandwiches every night?"
The Third Party
By: Tres K
Bobby flopped to the floor. He was, as Grandpa Jack used to say, “Tugging on an empty line.” Around him earnest young men talked softly into their cell phones. Outside, the press circled like barracuda, sniffing for blood. His campaign manager would keep them at bay long enough for Bobby to enjoy his fish sandwich and fries. Bobby valued Leon for that, above all else. The press could throw around words like “dynasty” and “legacy” all they liked, but he had to live this circus. He should be used to it, but all he could think of was the peace and quiet waiting for him on November 5th.