Before we get to the specifics of the Jacob Wonderbar Funny Writing Contest Spectacular Happening Event, for a little extra boost of motivation let’s give a quick shout out to the past contest finalists who have since gone on to be published or soon-to-be published authors:
Staurt Neville! Victoria Schwab! Terry DeHart! Michelle Hodkin! Michelle Davidson Argyle! Joshua McCune! Natalie Whipple! Josin L. McQuein! Jeanne Ryan! Peter Cooper!
Stars are born in these contests. STARS ARE BORN.
Will you join their ranks?! Let’s find out.
Now then. The premise of the Jacob Wonderbar Funny Writing Contest Spectacular Happening Event is thus:
Write a funny scene.
Simple, right?
IT IS NOT. Funny is hard work, people.
Your prizes!
The ultimate grand prize winner of the Jacob Wonderbar Funny Writing Contest Spectacular Happening Event will win:
1) The pride of knowing you are one seriously hilarious individual.
2) A partial critique from me.
3) A signed ARC of JACOB WONDERBAR FOR PRESIDENT OF THE UNIVERSE, the sequel to JACOB WONDERBAR AND THE COSMIC SPACE KAPOW, which will be released in April 2012:
Space monkeys!! |
The runners up of the JWFWCSHE will win query critiques or other agreed-on substitutes.
Yes, there are rules. They are:
I) This is a for-fun contest. Rules may be adjusted without notice, but this one will always remain: please don’t take the contest overly seriously. Hear me? YOU WILL HAVE FUN WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT.
II) Please post your funny scene in the comments section of THIS POST. Please do not e-mail me your submission. The deadline for entry is THURSDAY 6pm Pacific time, at which point entries will be closed. Finalists will be announced…. sometime after that.
III) Your word count limit: 350 words. You can do this. Your entry can either be from a work in progress or something you compose for this contest spectacular happening event.
IV) Please please check and double-check and triple-check your entry before posting. But if you spot an error after posting: please do not re-post your entry. I go through the entries sequentially and the repeated deja vu repeated deja vu from reading the same entry only slightly different makes my head spin. I’m not worried about typos, nor should you be.
V) You may enter once, once you may enter, and enter once you may. If you post anonymously, make sure you leave your name.
VI) Spreading word about the contest is strongly encouraged.
VII) I will be sole judge of the finalists. You the people will be the sole judge of the ultimate winner.
VIII) You must be at least 14 years old and less than 189 years old to enter. No exceptions.
IX) I’m on Twitter and may be posting contest updates! Follow me here:
That is all.
GOOD LUCK! May the most hilarious entry be extremely hilarious.
JACOB WONDERBAR AND THE COSMIC SPACE KAPOW, about three kids who blast off into space and find their way back home, was published by Dial Books for Young Readers in May and is available at:
Amazon (hardcover)
Amazon (Kindle)
Barnes & Noble (hardcover)
Barnes & Noble (Nook)
Books-a-Million
Borders
Indiebound
Powell’s
ASilver says
349 words from my YA WIP, DIVINE INTERVENTION. Enjoy…
Sadi knew her mom was up to something. “Are you hiding crystals in my jeans pockets again?”
“Not exactly.”
Sadi’s eyes narrowed to hazel slits. Worse than crystals?
“I’m not sure you’re ready for this…” her mom drew a deep breath. “I’m a demigoddess,” she exhaled. “I’ve been hiding out in this body for over two thousand years. I’m originally from ancient Mesopotamia, or thereabouts. My true identity is…Humerishiti-Aya!”
She announced this last bit boldly, as though thunderclaps would sound on cue.
Yep, definitely worse than crystals. “That’s your final answer? You’re a demigoddess from Mesopotamia?”
“Yep.”
“Which is where?”
“Modern day Iraq.”
“Or thereabouts.”
“Precisely.”
Sadi cocked an eyebrow. “And dad?”
“He thinks I was born in Akron, Ohio in 1968.”
“Uh-huh.” Sadi had no trouble imagining her father mistaking an ancient Mesopotamian goddess for an ex-waitress from Ohio. “You realize this is a bit much to swallow?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Prove it,” Sadi shrugged.
“I can’t. When I chose to mate with your father,” her mom explained delicately, “I trapped myself in this mortal form. I can’t escape it now.”
Sadi’s father waltzed sleepily into the kitchen, his bulging abdomen, which he referred to fondly as ‘table muscle’, bouncing over the top of his red boxers printed with dancing monkeys and bananas. He yawned and lazily scratched his butt with one hand before getting a glass of water with it.
“Ladies…” he nodded.
“Dad seriously, you’re going to drink with that hand now?”
Eddie looked at his daughter, mystified.
Sadi shook her head in disgust. “Never mind.”
He shuffled back out of the kitchen. His mismatched tube socks pooled limply around his furry ankles where the elastic was shot from too many washes.
“Night dear,” Aya called over her shoulder to the man she’d given up godliness for.
“Ni-” was all they heard in return.
Sadi looked long and hard at her mother. “You expect me to believe you traded immortality and divine power for a night with that?”
“He’s really very charming.”
“Mom, he wears tube socks and monkey underwear.”
“I see your point.”
Barbara Silkstone says
WENDY AND THE LOST BOYS
BARBARA SILKSTONE
I lay on my stomach on Belgian cream-colored sheets in my suite on the 370-foot yacht rocking in the waters somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle. I had finished a pitcher of screwdrivers before the sun came up and was feeling woozy. As I dozed in my bikini, something jumped on my back. I tried to fight it off, rolled over, and found myself looking at a giant tongue and two beady eyes. It was like being married again.
All six feet of Hook’s bony body retreated when I brought my knee up catching him in his man-berries. He turned, rolling off the bed and abruptly slamming his johnson into the teak nightstand. His penis was huge, dark, and engorged. I was right about the blue pills in his master suite. They were erectile dysfunction drugs. Of course, with the name UpUGo, it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure it out.
“I knew you were taking that junk. Don’t waste your time,” I said to the naked old man with the flabby butt as he held himself with a panicked look on his face. “And get out of my suite. The door was locked for a reason! How’d you get in here?”
“It’s been more than four hours, Wendy,” he whimpered. “I’m still hard and it hurts like hell. Help me!” His once chiseled features hung like melted wax from his cheekbones.
I snatched the ten-pound white hairball called Tinkerbelle from the foot of the bed and made my way to the sun deck. Hook’s Predator was a yacht on steroids. It took ten minutes to get from my suite to the upper floor. Hook had spent over $200 million of Ponzied money on this floating erection. He recited the Predator’s talents daily, like a mantra he hoped would keep away the feds, investors, and victims who wanted nothing more than to see him keelhauled.
annievictory says
Well here it goes.
Kate watched her friends file out of the Orgasmic Sex Toys and Other Erotica Store. As the door closed, her breathing quickened. Her chest hurt. She leaned against a glass display filled with pink, plastic vibrators. She wondered whether it was cancer or her aching heart.
“What’s your problem?” Charlie asked as he reapplied his red lipstick. Kate looked up. Charlie, the store’s resident transexual, had been giving her group of friends sex toy lessons for the last four weeks. Kate frowned. It wasn’t Charlie’s fault that she couldn’t do this anymore. Three months ago it had seemed like such a good idea. “Hey everyone, the cancer came back and the divorce is final, let’s go buy a vibrator.” But now she couldn’t pretend that cancer was cute, and sexy and fun.
She fanned her hands over the glass, “Charlie, did you forget that I’m one or two orgasms away from dying?” Charlie didn’t even put down his mirror. He put the lipstick back in its case and started curling his eye lashes.
“Kate. There are things in this world that are way worse than dying,” he said. Kate took her hands off the counter and put them on her hips. Back at her house, she had three months of sappy cards, dying house plants, and wilting flowers. She couldn’t believe she’d have to fight about this. She drew in a long breath. She hoped it would be enough for what she had to say,
“Charlie, you’re out of your mind. What could be worse than dying?”
Charlie placed the eye lash curler on the counter and he turned toward Kate.
“A penis,” he said. “Having a penis is worse. It’s not even close.” Kate looked into the case. The penises stared back, erect, inert, ready for action. She covered her mouth but the laughter rolled through her fingers. And it wasn’t her polite I have cancer laugh, it was her racy, deep I’m alive laugh. Then she walked behind the case and gave Charlie a hug. She hadn’t been the lucky one in a really long time.
Mike C. says
Once, I was nearly crushed to death by Chuck, a drunken stranger whose wrists were thicker than my thighs. It happened in a living room in Duxbury, Massachusetts moments after the Boston Red Sox won their first World Series since 1918.
We were in Duxbury visiting my wife’s cousin Amy. Chuck was Amy’s boyfriend, though I doubt that his feelings for her matched his raging passion for the Sox – or his quenchless thirst for Miller Lite.
I’m a lifelong Yankees fan. A week earlier, I’d prayed for Red Sox slugger David Ortiz to suffer a freakish and deadly accident. For safety’s sake, I was determined to conceal these facts from Chuck.
His excitement mounted steadily as the Red Sox built a three-run lead over the Cardinals. Heading into the bottom of the ninth, he reminded me of the space shuttle rumbling at the launch tower before takeoff.
Chuck went bananas after the final out. The floor shook as he rampaged about the living room, hurling deeply profane oaths of love and devotion to various Red Sox players as they appeared on the TV. A framed photo of Amy’s smiling parents toppled from the top of an upright piano. Chuck didn’t notice.
When I offered a congratulatory high five, he swept me into a crushing bear hug that drove the air from my lungs. I felt my ribcage contracting while he screamed “They did it! They did it!” as if I had expressed some doubt about the matter.
Such a funny way to die, I thought moments before Chuck released me. I gasped, curious about whether my lungs had collapsed. They hadn’t.
Chuck clapped me on the back.
“Can you believe it?” he asked, tears wetting his blue eyes.
Out of thin air, he produced a bottle of rotgut whiskey and two shot glasses. We toasted the Red Sox. Rather shamelessly, I toasted the Yankees’ epic collapse in the American League Championship Series. Chuck roared with delight. Mercifully, he passed out on the couch soon after. I gently covered him with a pink afghan and crept off to bed.
Gale Martin says
This is an excerpt from a comic novel about a small-town opera guild who encounters ghosts, seduction, and murder, coincidentally mirroring 'Don Giovanni,' the show they are struggling to produce:
New York agents reacted to Leandro Vasquez like he’d come out of nowhere, saying things like, “Where’d they hide a baritone like you? Under a cactus?”
He wasn’t hiding now. Leandro Vasquez, an Argentine gaucho who was discovered crooning to his cattle, had been seen by all of New York. Now that he’d earned their applause and smashing reviews, more than anything else, he needed release. Or he’d burst. He needed to get the head.
“I want to—get the head,” he whispered into the ear of the svelte actress seated beside him at the gala.
“I want to get ahead, too. First,I have to use the little girl’s room.” And she slid out of her chair with rubbery ease.
Get the head? That was the expression. Then, why had the young blonde deserted him?
A matronly woman slipped into the empty seat. As Vasquez turned to face her, she held out a hand with diamonds as big as coffee beans on every finger.
“I’m Jeannie Jacobs,” she said as though she lacked for nothing. “And you are an incredible specimen of a man.”
Then she shuddered, and the casaba-colored beads flanking her melónes rattled softly, creating flashes of light.
He wondered if this older lady gave the head. Could he pull her aside and say, “Madam, would you give me the head?”
Back in Argentina, he would say, “Haceme un pete.” If he said that to a girl from the Chaco, she would crack him across the mouth. Then she would tell her father. Then her father would shoot a hole in his heart.
He kissed her hand and pulled her into an alcove, tasting her flowery scent, whispering, “Haceme un pete.”
“Oh, I could buy and sell you many times over,” she said, covering his face with hungry kisses.
Leandro heard her say, “Buy and sell.” A little old for a prostitute, no? He fished out some crumpled bills and stuffed them into her palm.
She gasped. “You think I’m a hooker? A goddamn hooker? Here, I thought you were a nice boy.”
And she stalked away.
Jayne Moraski says
I didn't know how young you intended your audiences, but here's 350 words from my picture book manuscript, The Clicker King:
My sister, Molly, and I couldn’t agree what to watch on TV. I wanted pirates and she wanted ponies. The Clicker King would decide. So I tugged and she tugged. She’s bigger so she won. I sat watching ponies and schemed for a minute. I swooped like my favorite swashbuckler and stole that remote. With a grin I turned the channel. Then I shoved the whole thing down my throat. But Molly just stood up and turned off the TV.
She smirked, “Now what are you gonna do?” Before I could blink my stomach answered. I hiccuped…and the TV came back on. “Yes-s-s! Now I am really the Clicker King.”
I hiccuped again and the pirates got louder. I hiccuped and hiccuped and hiccuped some more—ponies then pirates then ponies came on. Hmm…this was not quite what I planned.
On again, off again, over and over. The hiccups just wouldn’t stop. Soon the lamps and appliances started to flicker, from my bellyful of clicker. So that’s what Dad means by ‘universal remote.’
I had created a Clicker-Monster. I held my breath. I ate peanut butter, slurped pickle juice, and stood on my head. I even pulled on my tongue. Each time we counted to ten. Eight…nine…hiccup…drat. The news channel flipped on, now who would want to watch that?
“I’ll help you,” said Molly, “but only if you promise we can take turns watching shows on Saturdays.” Ugghh. Share the TV–what else could I do? I had to stop hiccuping, I was starting to feel not-so-good. I nodded in defeat.
Then Molly did something so freaky that I couldn't believe my eyes. She….she walked to the wall and unplugged the TV! It gave me such a shock that the hiccups stopped right then.
Mom and Dad never could figure out how to turn on the TV. As for Molly and me, we pinkie swore not to squeal. And we’ve kept that promise to this day. We don’t watch TV. We go outside to play.
Carol Riggs says
I'm having fun reading these–what a wide range! Humor is definitely subjective, and I don't envy your task of choosing, Nathan…I suppose in the end it will be whatever tickles YOUR wonderbar-ous funny bone!.
Christi Goddard says
Bit of dialogue back and forth between a couple zombie-like characters in MS who just met:
"You're like me, right? You look it. Dead, too?" She leaned in close and sniffed. "You look it, and kind of smell like it, too. What are you driving? You're driving, yeah? Going where I am, I bet. You have the dreams? Of course you do, or you wouldn't be here. Brown, huh? I got red, obviously. Thank God. I'd look horrid in brown. Not that you do. Well, you don't look fabulous or anything, but not bad."
"Did you actually…I dunno… want me to give answers here?"
"Huh? Sure, I guess. I mean, I already figured it out, except what you're driving."
"I'm not." I was curious how she was able to drive, but she already annoyed me, and I wasn't sure I wanted to talk to her anymore. The only thing that kept my feet planted was the fact we were obviously connected somehow, and it was more linear than the Kevin Bacon Factor.
"You're what, then? Hitchhiking? That's dangerous, you know."
"Yeah, well lately I sort of feel invulnerable."
She smiled in a way that made me very uncomfortable. In a flash, she twirled a butterfly knife in her hand then stabbed me in the chest.
"Ow!" I hissed, turning towards the wall to yank it out before someone came along and saw. "You trying to kill… okay. I'll stop there, but OW! What the hell did you do that for? You tore my clothes."
She rolled her eyes, her hand open and expectant of her knife's return. "If you're going to be such an infant, you can stab me back if you like."
I was tempted. Won't lie.
I slapped the open blade into her palm and said, "I'm not being an infant. I just think your flare for the dramatic is out of place in broad daylight where anyone can see us."
"Scarlett."
"O'Hara."
"No, Scarlett's my name, dumbass."
"You're being pretty antagonistic to someone you just met, don't you think?"
"No different than I treat anyone. You're not so special I'll change my ways."
"I don't think you're… stable. Have a nice death."
Kreann says
Thanks for the contest! Don't know why I'm submitting – the Anteater story is my hands-down fav! 😉 This is my WF WIP "TABLE MANNERS" and is 310 words:
They remained lip-locked long enough that I began to grow even more uncomfortable than I already was. After a while I had to look away, and tried to subtly clear my throat…
As Xavier looked lovingly down into Dawn's eyes, he called out, “A massage therapist?”
I didn’t know if he was still speaking to his fiancée or me. “I beg your pardon?” I finally squeaked when no one else responded.
“It that truly what you are?” he asked in a dreamy voice, still lost in Dawn’s eyes.
“Yes…yes, I am.”
“And why did you stop by today?”
“Well, I–”
“Never mind that, are you any good?”
“Well, I–”
“Excellent. Whatever your current employer is paying you, I’ll match.”
“Well, actually I–”
“You drive a hard bargain, Miss…”
“uh, Williams–Liz Williams. Really I–”
“…Miss Liz Williams. Fine then, I will supply you with all of Dawn’s current clients, so long as they’ll have you, and waive your table rental while you are here with us.”
“Wow, that’s very–”
“Still not enough?” he asked, his voice tightening ever so slightly. “Fine, I’ll give you Thursdays off. That’s my best offer—take it, or leave it.”
“I–”
“Excellent. Be here at 7:30 on Monday morning. We’ll find a smock in your size prior to then. Size 6, I believe?”
How could he know that with only once glancing my way? I wondered, amazed.
“Yes, I–”
“Done. Thank you, Liz, for helping us out in this time of need,” he said, and Dawn quickly chimed in “Yes, thank you so much,” though neither bothered to look my way.
“You’re…welcome?”
I stood there for a second before I realized our conversation had ended, and so I slowly made my way for the door…
Anonymous says
I’d ventured into the world of online dating at the behest of my very Catholic mother, who believed I could and would find a mate on C-date. C-date, the ugly brother to J-date, the more sophisticated brother to OKCupid, the cheap-ass, socially retarded brother to Match.
Outside, leaning on my doorbell like the reset button on life-support, stood C-date Number 46. My roommate stood up, hiked her Snuggie around her waist. It was her favorite one, a Patriotism-themed blitz of fabric which she had picked up from our local VA. Yes, some people shop there.
“Oooh,” she says. “You didn’t tell me you had a date!”
Of course I didn’t. You’re wearing a Snuggie for veterans. You’re 25, you have three cardboard vampires in our living room and one in dangerous proximity to your bed, and you’ve spent the last 23 weekends watching The Wire. The Wire is an exceptional show, yes. But you talk in a gangsta accent for days afterward and you’re a Long Island Jew and my delicate social consciousness can’t handle it.
“It’s not going to be good anyway.”
“What? Why not?”
“Bad grill, a questionable limp, too many references to chimpanzees.”
“You can’t tell a limp from pictures.”
“I feel like I can.”
“Well, look, at least he’s Catholic. Right?”
I’m not even Catholic. I mean, I was, but that was before I lost my virginity on a tennis court to some guy named Rufus with an IQ of 74. His name wasn’t really Rufus. And he spoke three languages, so the IQ may be an underestimate. But hard courts? Really? Scarred for life. Thanks, asshole.
The doorbell rings. And rings. Endlessly, like the slow whine of a dying cat.
I’ve done the Walk of Shame, I’ve lived it, I’ve even spoken of it with a distant, embarrassed pride. This moment, this descent into the unknown, is an entirely different, uglier beast.
I take a breath. My cell phone beeps with a message, a glorious send-off from my beloved roommate.
YEAH BIRCH. DO HIM HARD.
Birch. Bitch? Must have auto-corrected.
My mother would be proud.
~by KK (350 words exactly! whew)
brianw says
From my debut novel, Dreamworld. (My publisher said it was okay, but if that's a breach of the rules, Nathan, I totally understand).
I remember it like it was yesterday…
We were walking around side by side. She looked nervous and I felt extremely awkward. My hands felt huge, and I wasn’t sure if my arms were swinging differently than normal or if they always looked this weird. I wondered if I should try to hold her hand. Maybe I was supposed to kiss her. I looked at her and thought she looked very pretty. She looked at me and I looked away, both of us blushing.
“Let’s ride the Gravitron,” she said. As soon as the words left her mouth, I felt sure something terrible was about to happen. I wanted to say no, but I didn’t want her to think I was afraid.
“Sure, I love the Gravitron.” Which was the truth. It was the one that went in circles so fast people got pinned to the wall. At first it was fun.
After one revolution she was smiling. After two she started to turn green. At the fifth revolution we looked into each other’s eyes for the first time. I saw my doom in those baby blues. I tried to escape but it was like a bad dream.
She puked on my face halfway through revolution number six. Then the machine really started to pick up. She cried next to me as we went faster and faster. I’ve never been much for the smell of puke. I wanted to return the favor, but I couldn't get my head to turn.
I vomited straight out in front of me and the Gravitron pulled that puke right back onto my face. It was, without a doubt, the worst moment of my young life.
Eric Housel says
This is a scene from my WIP children's book "Sam Likeable".
-Eric Housel-
Sam didn’t feel like going through the typical new kid routine of standing in front of the classroom for introductions.
On the other hand, this was his chance for a second first impression. Maybe the other students would be so overjoyed by a new kid in the class that they would have forgotten about disastrous crash into the bike rack. The huddled masses would line up to see him and get a chance to be near him. He could picture the flashing cameras and the microphones shoved into his face as the paparazzi and the crowds begged to be closer to Sam.
“Oh my gosh it’s him! It’s Sam Likeable!” yelled one of his admirers.
“Can I have your autograph?!”
“Sam, will you marry me? I love you!” came another voice from the crowd.
“Now, now, let’s settle down everyone” said Sam, as he held his hands in the air calming the crowd. “There will be plenty of time for pictures. I’ll be here all year. I want you to treat me like any other average student, even if I am extremely popular, attractive, and wealthy.”
Laughter broke out, and he realized it happened again. Sam got caught up in his imagination and had acted out his little scene in front of his new classmates.
“Well, we’ll certainly try our best to treat you like any other student.” came a soft voice from the front of the class. “I’m Mrs. Wheeler, and you must be Sam Likeable. I was told you would be joining us. Why don’t you come in and take a seat. It is a treat to have you here.”
Sam chose a seat next to Jackie, from the Principal’s office. He pretended to search through his bag so he could ignore the stares and suppressed laughter from his new classmates. He had managed to embarrass himself twice in one day and felt that he was maxed out on embarrassing himself.
“Well, that’s one way to make an entrance,” said Jackie mockingly. “Next time, I suggest knocking and than entering, rather than announcing your greatness to everyone.”
Tracy N. Jorgensen says
Madam awoke late and was carried in her bed to a large tub where she would soak for several hours, demanding anyone who wished to see her to come to her bathroom, as she couldn’t be bothered to get out until her fingers were perfectly pruned. After a fresh manicure and a change of wardrobe, Madam would stroll through her hall of mirrors admiring her beauty and fine taste: her long flowing train, her long flowing hair, her long elegant face, her bosom, which wasn’t long but still rather attractive.
Another change of clothing and she took the time to allow others to feed her dainty mouth large quantities of food. Of course, Madam never gained weight (her on-call plastic surgeon saw to that), and insisted on eating whatever suited her fancy at the time. The cooks tried as they might to anticipate her whims, but often resorted to a frantic preparation of some sort of strange cuisine Madam had concocted in her mind.
The unused food was given to the servants. After all, Madam could not bear the thought of wasting one morsel of food while children starved in Uthida. She was very concerned with children starving in Uthida though she had never met one. She had once sent them a postcard explaining her concern, but no starving child in Uthida ever wrote her back.
The remainder of her day was spent as she willed, usually with shopping and grand parties and gossiping about the neighbors. Often, she would forget which neighbor she was gossiping about and would have to clarify if she was discussing the one to whom she spoke. When such a misfortune did occur, the neighbor would quickly assure her it was all too true and they should probably reconsider their actions. Madam could then continue on, telling them how very clever they were to come to her for advice.
dcamardo says
The car pulled up to a small, tan building. They hustled through the blustery winds to the glass doors. Once inside, her father went to the front desk while Suzy waited on a hard, plastic chair.
The receptionist took out a form and pen, ready to write. “Name?”
“Frank,” her father said.
“Species?”
“Human.”
The receptionist glared at him over the frames of her glasses.
“Sorry, I thought you meant me.” Her father forced a fake laugh. “This is the hamster I called about. The name is Mr. Snugglymuffin.”
“Is Mister abbreviated or not?”
“Does it matter?”
Again, the receptionist looked up at him as if he was ridiculous.
After a few awkward seconds, he scratched the back of his head. “I guess you can abbreviate it.”
The receptionist focused back on the paperwork. “And is Snugglymuffin one word or two?”
“I don’t know. I never spelled it before.”
“Here.” The receptionist put the form on clipboard and held it out with a pen. “You fill this out.”
Her father took the clipboard and pen and sat down next to Suzy. After glancing over the document, he whispered to Suzy, “Is Snugglymuffin one word or two?”
“Does it matter?”
“Apparently it does.”
“One, I guess.”
Jackie Brow says
Breaking Benjamin is breaking up over the radio when dead ahead there’s a giant turd waddling toward the car. I hit the brakes, swerving to avoid hitting what turns out to be a little wiener dog.
“Fu…Blasted mutt! I could’ve been killed!” Angry, I kick open the rusty car door, grab the dog by the scruff of its neck, and storm up to the nearest house.
“This yours?”
“No.”
“You know who it belongs to?”
“No. You a cop?”
“I look like a cop?”
“No.” Door slams. Stoner.
I park the dog on the side of the road, wish it good luck, and proceed on my way. Five minutes later, I’m opening the door to my rented bungalow. Bungalow’s generous, this dump’s mother was a shanty and its father an outhouse, but it’s all I could afford.
Strange sounds at my door. I reach for the bat stowed under the sagging sofa.
“Who’s there?”
No answer. I crack the door and, poised for a home run, kick it open. Nobody. I step out and down I go, dude’s tripped me and I relive the past six months: Katie. Katie kicking me out Me buying a one-way ticket to L.A. Katie. Eyes squeezed tight I hope the guy’s a good shot. Instead, the freaky serial killer's licking my face. I open my eyes to the backside of the road near-kill strolling into my house.
Filthy little beast gazes up at me as if I’m a giant hotdog bun waiting to embrace him.
“Don’t be looking at me.” His tail is on turbo wag.
A heart-shaped dog tag lists two telephone numbers.
A raspy-voiced geezer lady answers. “Righteous! My grandniece’s ankle-biter Oscar split last week right before they were leaving and Rachel was all freaked out over some major happening back east, so she like ran all over papering everything with flyers and calling the shelters and…”
The old broad stops to take what sounds like a hit off a bong and I take the opportunity to butt into our one-sided conversation.
“What’s your address?”
Of course she's an hour away.
Megan Stirler says
“What happened in here?” her mother asked, exasperated. The little girl pulled at her ruffled princess pajamas as she surveyed the carnage. She stood in a sea of stuffed animals and books.
“I don’t know, Mommy,” she said. “It was like this when I got up.” Her mother just stared at her, incredulous.
“Really. Then who made this mess?” the mother asked, tone cold.
“I wasn’t me, Mommy. I promise!” She was so endearingly earnest, but her mother sensed a con in progress.
“Sweetie, no one has been in here but you. So tell the truth – who made this mess?” The little girl’s eyes widened as she whispered.
“Squirrels.”
Old Red waited, surrounded by the elders of the tribe. His nose twitched and a tiny hand reached up to scratch it, twirling his luxurious whiskers. His tail curled magnificently behind him. That tail proclaimed his right to rule.
“Bring forth the candidate,” he chirped. Humans called him cute, but no one here mistook the violence behind those limpid brown eyes.
A young squirrel was propelled forward from the crowd, his ears unmarred by combat. His tail was imposing for such a youngling, though, and Old Red knew that this one would bear watching.
“So,” Old Red intoned. “You embark upon your vision quest.” The young squirrel nodded imperceptibly. Old Red barked, contemptuous.
“You are timid to have such a flamboyant tail,” he chided and the assembly laughed. The young squirrel hunkered lower. Perhaps Old Red had nothing to fear, after all. He raised a paw to silence the crowd and then piped his declaration.
“You will go to the house of the twin dogs and destroy the room of the small child on the second floor. She has many stuffed toys to disembowel and books to shred. Bring me the button eye of the black bear as proof of your victory.” He leaned down and whispered into the trembling ear.
“Do not come back without proof, young one, or I shall rip your tail from its base and drive you from the burrow.”
Justin says
This is just too much fun! It gets me out of my funk.
"Whatever!" I screamed as I slammed the door in her quickly retreating face. "I don't need you anyway!!" I was upset to say the least. I was muttering under my breath and kicking through piles of old newspapers on the floor when I struck a box. Not just any box. A doughnut box. Now, for years I have been adamantly opposed to doughnuts. Fried dough just doesn’t go well with my strict diet of burgers and booze.
But today, as I stared at the box, I was drawn to the contents. I withdrew one of the stale rings of sweetness and bit into it. I was instantly transported to sugar glazed bliss. I had never tasted anything quite so good. "Damn her" I muttered as sugar crumbs fell from my mouth to join the ketchup stains on my shirt.
I was enjoying this way too much. "Damn her." I muttered some more as I finished off the rest of the box. That girl, to whom I had devoted 3 whole months worth of my hard earned lifeblood for what? A sugar monkey riding my back and something that resembled Tourette’s syndrome?
At least I know who to blame my doughnut habit on. She was such an …interesting…person. I loosely use person. She was strange. Her name was Lola, she liked to be called Bob, but everyone called her Jen. That should have been my first clue to her strangeness.
Well, technically my first clue should have been the hot pink hair. It seemed exotic and cool at the time but it just wasn’t. Oh well. At least ZXC Investigations is still running. I have had 2 clients over the past year and have actually made enough money to afford a room with a door on it. It sure beat the box I was living in before that.
“Damn her!” I muttered again and started kicking garbage aside looking for that fifth of bourbon I had opened last night. I couldn’t find it but I kept muttering anyway. I had to get out of here and Krispy Kreme was calling. Damn Her.
Neil Larkins says
Right, Nathan: Funny IS hard work. Relates to comedy. Whether you like him or not, Jerry Lewis was right when he said that comedy is the highest form of drama. Same for writing funny. Funny – odd – thing is, something I wrote completely serious, my wife thinks is hilarious. Not going to submit it, though. (I'd like others to think it's serious.)
Grapeshot/Odette says
The title of this is: I was a Catfish for the DEA.
As I tooled along in the water just miles north of the equator my receptors picked up satellite phones and GPS devices off the Somali coast.
Sky Sat chatter at 2°, 47 minutes North, 46°, 21 minutes East.
No sooner had I transmitted this information than I swam into a mass of flailing swimmers. The crew of a rust bucket boat was tossing people into the sea. I signaled my handlers for a delivery of lifeboats and beach towels.
The First Law of Robotics is that a robot may not allow a human being to come to harm. I swam among the weak, nudging flounderers to the surface, when I got caught in some netting and was heaved out of the water, caught by brutish sailors in a seine.
I signaled my handlers: captured by seafaring thugs.
The motley crew gathered and gaped, shouting “Foodda! Foodda!” I didn’t need to access my international dictionary to understand that.
A message came over my emergency frequency: Somali pirates have grabbed you. Get the hell off that boat. Assistance will arrive.
Those bastards would have made catfish stew out of me, but I extruded my alternate hidden fins to slit the seine. While those lawless loonies gaped, I thrust out tiny mobility wheels, shot between their legs, crossed the deck and plunged into the water. I also deployed a few grams of my special “slime” that made the deck “slippery as snot on a marble.” When the pirates tried to run to the railing, they careened and crashed into each other like Keystone Cops. I dove under the boat and lurked among exhausted swimmers. Again, I requested life-saving assistance; again I bumped the sinking ones to the surface.
My sound sensors detected a helicopter. The Seahawk chopper dropped a basket for me and inflatable rafts and MRE for the swimmers. From my basket aerie above the water, I saw two pirates pointing their AK47s at me. Maybe they noticed the Penguin missiles, because they didn’t shoot. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Being a fish out of water wasn’t so bad.
The Sasquatch says
I drank some scotch and wrote this. I hope it doesn't suck.
********
Josh and Brian sat on a park bench, talking.
“I went out with Beth the other night,” Josh said.
“Was that the girl you met at your uncle’s funeral?” Brian asked.
“No. That was Chrissie. This was the blind date from my cousin’s bar mitzvah.”
“What ever happened to Amy?”
“She had a mole, and that wrecked it for me.”
“Come on, man,” Brian said. “You have to look past those things. It’s the twenty first century. Be a bigger man.”
“What about Alexis?” Josh said, smiling sarcastically.
“That was different.”
“How?”
“She had Fred Flintstone feet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She had four toes, each of which fanned out to a flat circle at the end. They looked like little hammerhead sharks. She had flippers instead of feet.”
“Wicked,” Josh said.
“She couldn't walk straight, but get that girl in a pool and there’s no stopping her."
A car drove by. An old man on the bench next door leaned over to kiss his wife.
“Remember Jessie?” Brian said.
“Was she the one with the mustache?” Josh asked.
“No. That was Adrienne.”
“Adrienne,” Josh said, laughing. “She looked like Tom Selleck, like Magnum P.I. with tits!"
“Jamie had Tourette’s,” Brian said.
“That’s where you swear in public, right?”
“Right.”
“Didn’t your mom have that?” Josh asked.
“No. She was just mean.”
“Jamie. Weren’t you going to propose to her?”
“I did," Brian said. "Took her out to dinner, popped the ring, got down on one knee and everything.”
“What happened?”
“She was so excited she swore like a sailor for five minutes. There was a Girl Scout troop next to us. It was awesome.”
“How come you didn’t get married?” Josh asked.
“Political disagreements,” Brian said.
“Was she a brainless lib?”
“No.”
“A wingnut conservative?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“Caught her f**king the mayor,” Brian said.
“That’ll do it every time,” Josh said.
A dog barked. Some kids laughed in the park.
“How’d that date with Beth go?” Brian asked.
"Alright," Josh said. "We're going out again next week."
“That’s good,” Brian said.
myimaginaryblog says
This is NOT a contest entry because the person I'm submitting for is 11, but my daughter invented a facebook character called "Stupidsaurus Rex," and just for the fun of it I wanted to share some excerpts from S.R.'s wall:
—
Stupidsaurus Rex added Eating People to his activities.
BH Eating people is bad for you–they are full of toxic substances, and if the bones don't hurt your teeth, they hurt your bottom.
StupidsaurusRex WEL USHULY I DONT EET DA BONS THANKS FOR THE ADVIS
BH You're welcome. But remember, toxins.
—
StupidsaurusRex added Coca-Cola to his interests.
BH Drink lots and lots of Coca-Cola. That way you'll die sooner.
StupidsaurusRex OH THA-WAYT
StupidsaurusRex DATS MEEN ANEEWAY I CANT DRINC TO MUCH BEECUZ ITS HARD TO OPIN DA LID
—
StupidsaurusRex
I PUNCHD A BAG
—
Stupidsaurus Rex
I PUNCHD A NUTHR BAG
—
StupidsaurusRex
I TRID TO GO TO DA STOR BUT DA MEEN LADEE SCREEMD AT MEE
BH Whew, glad to know that screeming at you could save my life.
Stupidsaurus Rex NO YOO DONT UNDRSTAND I WUSNT GOENG TO EET HER
JH I imagine that in person it's even harder to decipher your intentions than online.
StupidsaurusRex I EEVIN TRID TOO SMIL AT HER BUT I CANT
—
StupidsaurusRex
HAY DUS ANEEBUDEE WUNT TO CUM TO MI HOWS TO PLA? I HAV SUM COOL DINOSOR TOYS
StupidsaurusRex AKSHALY I DONT HAV A HOWS BUT YOO CAN STIL PLA
—
StupidsaurusRex
I RIPD A HOL IN MI SKIN WIN I WUS DASEENG OOPS
StupidsaurusRex WAYT HOW YOO SPEL DASEENG? DANSNEENG? DASEEG?
MW [Creator of Stupidsaurus, posting as herself.] I'm pretty sure you mean dancing, but…I could be wrong. I think I remember a time when you pronounced Walmart "Wurmlart". Took me a couple days to figure it out.
JH I wouldn't worry so much about my spelling as a hole in my skin, were I you.
Stupidsaurus Rex OW
—
StupidsaurusRex
CAN ANEEBODEE FOR REED DINOSOR LANGWIJ? TRI TOO REED DIS: "ROOOOOOR! ROOOR! CHOMP ROOOOOOOOOOOR!"
StupidsaurusRex CLOO: IT SES "I FOR EETING YOO! YUM! CHOMP SO DELISHIS YOO AR!"
—
BH: Rex, do you have a girlfriend?
StupidsaurusRex HAD A FREND…I AYT HER THEN I CRID
LH I had a feeling your answer would be something along those lines…
BH So many love stories end that way.
—
[There's even more, but that's 350 words' worth.]
Jillian says
Appalled by the necromancer's utter lack of compliance with deathly protocol, I pointed an accusing finger at the walking corpse. "That's a soul that belongs in the Beyond, not just…not just wandering around as if it has a right to a corporeal form!"
"Hey, hey, dead guy right here, remember?" The zombie in question spoke with an injured tone. "Show a little compassion for the once dearly departed."
"It could have been worse," the necromancer said, a mischievous smile coming to his face as if he weren't about to face major fines for raising a zombie. "She could have called you a hunk of rotting flesh."
"I would settle for hunk by itself, but I doubt the word's in her vocabulary," the zombie replied. A maggot crawled along his hairline, but he just swiped at it as if it were an itch of some kind. Nausea roiled inside me; zombies always made me wish I had skipped a few meals. "She obviously doesn't know a fine piece of human specimen when she sees it."
Anger boiled away my nausea. Now all I wanted to do was take out my scythe and cleave that smile right off the zombie's face. "You belong in a morgue, not a modeling catalogue," I snapped.
"Ouch." The zombie raised his decaying hands to his chest. "If my heart were still beating, reaper girl, I would be scarred for life."
The necromancer's smile grew wider. "Life, of course, being an oxymoron in this instance."
Then I watched as, to my dismay and confusion, laughter overtook both necromancer and zombie.
It seemed that boys, alive or undead, still had a tendency to be idiots.
"Enough," I said, using my best 'I am a reaper, and you will fear me' voice. An unnatural chill settled into the air, and the boys' laughter dissolved into silence.
"Wow, special effects," the zombie eventually said, awe in his voice. "I thought being dead meant I couldn't get any colder!"
The necromancer chuckled. "Parlor tricks."
My curling smile flattened, astonishment stealing away my one moment of pride.
Now I knew what people meant when they said Death didn't get any respect these days.
Anonymous says
From my WIP younger MG…
The king makes a sweeping bow. “Tis my pleasure, Princess.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Are you not aware of your royal heritage? That you and I are linked through blood?”
My mouth drops open. “Are you saying I’m a troll? Are you kidding me?”
“Hmph.” The king sniffs and lifts his chin. “You say ‘troll’ as if it were some repulsive insect that has sullied your soup—truly, you should feel honored to be descended from our majestic lineage.” He taps my hand. “I bid you lift me up.”
I scoop him up so he rests on my elbow. He leans in close, studying my face.
“Sadly, there is little sign of the noble troll in your visage.”
I sigh in relief and tuck my hair behind my ears.
“Ah!” The king stretches his finger to touch the top of my ears where they’re a little pointy. “All is not lost. I detect proof of troll blood right here. I had feared the human influence had diluted all traces of your magnificent ancestry.”
I set the king down on the floor and quickly shake my head so my hair covers my ears. I’ll never wear a ponytail again.
“Why should I be happy about being part troll? Everybody knows trolls are ugly! And mean!”
King Brix’s hair flashes an even brighter shade of red, as his face turns a matching color.
“Who doth tell such lies? The gnomes? Or is it the leprechauns spreading mistruths again?”
I stifle a laugh. Gnomes and leprechauns! Really! But considering I’m talking to a twelve-inch man who claims to be the king of the trolls, maybe it’s not as crazy as it sounds.
Tambra says
349 words from my older YA contemporary fantasy: THE BLACK ROSE by Tambra Kendall
(slight modification for word count)
A deep, rumble shook the room. Tara grumbled. The sound returned, but this time her bed shook. She cracked her eyes open. Darkness. Her sleep-fogged brain slogged through her thoughts. A goddess and her boyfriend Druce saying training takes place early in the morning. Her eyes opened wider as her brain attempted coherency. Druce was right. This is the butt crack of dawn. Correction, the crack hadn't even appeared so she could sleep a little longer. . She grabbed the butter soft quilt and rolled over.
“Get up, Tara. It’s time to begin your training.”
She jerked awake. The Morrighan's voice scared the crap out her.
The Goddess stood in the middle of her room with an aggravated expression. Tara wasn't sure if the cold air or the presence of the war goddess made her shiver. “I’m up. Give me a second to get awake and dress. Can you tell I’m not a morning person? I need coffee.” Was she terminally stupid? Using sarcasm and snark on a war goddess could get your ass fried.
The goddess lifted a dark brow and waved her hand. Red sparks flashed.
Tara looked down. A black t-shirt, black yoga pants and high top aerobic shoes instantly appeared. Her fighting attire. Okay, so maybe there were a few good things about this situation after all.
“Thank you for the clothes. I really need my caffeine fix.” Might as well ask. While she waited, she yawned again. Before she could breathe or scream; the goddess transported them…somewhere.
Tara fell on her butt.
She scrambled to her feet. I'll bet she did that on purpose.
The Morrigan grinned. “This is the Celtic Underworld and my domain. I’m going turn your training over to Scatha's, another war goddess. She’s trained many famous warriors and ran a school for them on the Isle of Skye. Oh, I forgot, no breakfast until you finish to Scatha's satisfaction. And no coffee while you're here.” The Morrigan gave her wicked grin before she left in a bright red flash.
“No coffee? Damn, that’s cruel and unusual punishment.” Tara called out.
Holly Vance says
Does the entry have to be middle school appropriate?
Nathan Bransford says
No no, humor of all stripes is allowed and encouraged.
Rob says
The AC was out for the service. It was dry as a bone outside, but everyone looked as if they had just come in from the rain. Southern belles in their Sunday best made fans of the church bulletin. Gentlemen in seersucker affected a repose that was -practically speaking- impossible. In the swelter, it would have been easier to pass out than to relax.
Following the lead of his father, Eugene Smith flipped open the top button of his shirt and pulled his tie loose. He had grown three inches since the start of summer. His white sleeves stretched out of his jacket like brazen groundhogs. The skin between his sock and cuff was on display for voyeurs across the entire pew. He slid a forearm across his forehead, rubbing oil into sweat.
Eugene was conscious of everyone’s rapt attention on the pulpit and his own wandering eyes. Elizabeth Graham was sweating into a silk blouse. Eugene had no idea what he was going to do when it came time to rise and sing the hymnal. Possibly, he would lose the button at his waist.
His sister leaned close. “They’re just boobs,” she whispered. “You’ve seen bigger ones in your magazines.”
Blood rushed to Eugene’s head. He clenched his fist, but thought better of violence. Mr. Smith gave his children a look of ambiguous scorn: I don’t know what you’re doing but I know it’s not appropriate. The good reverend called the flock to song.
Christina Baglivi Tinglof says
(Family Obligation)
“Well, that’s the last of it,” I said, nodding towards the box by the door.
“I just pray you don’t get knifed to death,” my dad said not even looking up from the paper. He’s always been the optimist.
“Don’t worry, Daddy," I said. "New York’s not so bad. I hear muggings are much more common.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.”
“Besides, there are more than a million single men in New York. Maybe I’ll find a husband.”
“Well you had no luck here. Got enough money?” As he stood up and reached into his back pocket to pull out his wallet, the front door to the restaurant opened and in slid Nicky Donofrio, Mary’s favorite loser nephew. His entourage for the week consisted of two blondes that looked to be in their early twenties. They stood behind Nicky giggling, waiting for a family introduction that never came.
Nicky was bad. And I don’t mean the wet-your-panties kind of bad. He was more of twenty-years-to-life-in-the-state-pen kind of bad. Never one to toe the line, Nicky was always looking for a way to make a quick buck. And that usually meant in some illegal capacity. He was a couple of years older than me but a few feet shorter. He had this habit of always wearing his blue jeans two sizes too small and then spent the better part of the day adjusting himself. I’d never been to his place in Newark but I was pretty sure he lived in the sewer.
"Hey! Hey! I see I got here just in time!" Nicky said. "How's it goin' Marie? You're lookin' a little cold."
"I'm great," I said crossing my arms across my chest. "I see you haven't changed much. Oh, wait. Your face cleared up."
Bret Wellman says
The new Z-Track, turbo charged, nitric injected, twin engines, It was the greatest lawn mower ever conceived by man. Though I would never let my wife know it, I had just peed in my pants a little.
“Honey get down, you’re not supposed to touch the prototypes.” She said up to me.
We were at the lawn mower auto show and this little puppy just happened to be unguarded. “Do not touch.” A little red sticker said. I had already crossed the do not cross ropes, why stop there? I pressed the button next to the sticker.
“Honey no!” My wife called. After ten years of nagging, I was pretty good at ignoring her.
A screen flicked on asking if I wanted to exterminate humanity. I meant to hit no but I accidently hit yes…
The Z-Track roared to life and started heading for the crowds of people. It immediately began syncing up with other mowers, building an army. A stronger man would have hit the stop button but not me, I bailed out. And then everybody died and it was the apocalypse.
So yea honey, if you don’t stop nagging me this is what could happen… It is football season, can’t I take out the trash after the game?
Beth Overmyer says
From my MG novella – In a Pickle:
Had Charlie not been tied from knees to neck, he would’ve bolted. Scarred and dirty, the beast stood a whopping six feet tall and boasted breath that made Charlie's nose hairs stand on end. Charlie tried to scream, he tried to squirm, and just as he thought he was a goner, the monster spoke.
"Hey, pal, who did this to you?" The voice lost some of its roughness, but Charlie knew the monster wanted to lure him into a false sense of security—right before eating him.
"Here, hold still," the beast said. The thing moved in closer, poised for the kill, reached down its hand-like claws, and… patted him on the knee? That wasn't a monster-like thing to do. "It's gonna be all right, kid." It pulled out a switchblade. Now that was a monster-like thing to do.
Charlie let out a muffled scream as the monster sawed at the ropes. This was the end. He was going to die. In all his Travels, he had never been attacked by monsters. Well, as Sister Mary Ruth would say, "There's a first time for everything." This first time would be his last.
Instead of dying, however, Charlie felt his bonds begin to give. Within two minutes, he was free. He ripped off the gag. "Ahhh!"
The monster froze. "Are you all right, kid?"
Then Charlie remembered something: he didn't believe in monsters, garbage or not. He stopped screaming and looked his rescuer in the eye. He meant to thank him, but all that came out was "You're kind of creepy."
River says
Stephanie Lilley
This is from my WIP–A Woman, A Man, and a dog named Stan:
Belle held out her hand. “I can take your dog into my office. Just leave him home next time you come to the library.”
The man touched his hat. She paused. Something familiar about him…
“I appreciate your help with Stan, m'am. I was to ask for a MayEtta Honeybelle Honeycutt for help in researching my kin,” he said.
“Oh.” Her grandmother had sent him. The clue: using her full name. Another prospective ‘husband.’
Stan leaned against her. She looked down. “Uh, I’ll just take Stan to my office. My cousin, Starr, can show you where to wait.” In her office, she tied the hound to her chair. “Stay here,” she ordered. The bloodhound flopped down and closed his eyes.
Starr was waiting for her.
“One fine man,” she whispered.
The stranger had taken off his CAT cap. He ran his fingers through blonde wavy hair and smiled at them.
Belle gasped. “I know who that is.”
Starr shrugged. “He just introduced himself, hon.”
“No,oh,no.”
“What?”
Belle waved her hand. “I’ll tell you later.” She walked away.
Starr stomped her foot. “I can’t wait that long.”
Belle scooped up a huge dictionary on the way then slammed it down on the table next to the stranger. He jumped. Starr jumped. Stan howled and a chair flew down the aisle pulled by a wild-looking hound dog.
Stan hit Belle at a run, knocked her onto the stranger’s lap. All three swayed for a minute. The chair’s metal legs moaned then bent then spread out like a pinwheel. Everybody hit the floor.
Belle grimaced. “Sorry.”
He grimaced. “I’m thoroughly convinced you’re bonkers.” His accent had changed to British. He looked at her rear end on his stomach. “And I am in considerable pain.”
Patrons had gathered around them. Belle pushed Stan off and pulled herself up.
“We are okay," she announced. "It was an accident.” Well, not exactly, but she did manage NOT to hit him on the head which was what she desperately wished to do.
JennaQuentin says
Just before my 190th birthday – whew! Thanks for this opportunity!
Jousting – 272 words
Calm. Authoritative. Loving. I am all these things. As a mother, they come naturally.
“Get in your stroller now!”
The toddler squints his eyes and heaves a sigh, as if to say he can't believe that I'm going up against him. After all, he had had twelve hours of sleep, eaten a full breakfast, filled a diaper and gotten a clean one and is wearing his shoes; in short, he is well-fed knight in full armour.
“Lucas, you have two choices: ride in the stroller or walk beside me.” He holds up his arms to be picked up.
I am not as well-equipped for this joust. A night of tossing and turning, morning sickness, a glass of juice; in short, I'm the shabby country squire about to be unhorsed. Still, I'm determined to win this one.
I grasp my first lance. I have to make it look like it's not a command. I walk a few paces away. “Come baby, we're going for a walk. Walk with Mama.”
The toddler shuffles and looks up the street.
Ok, one lance broken. Lance two. Two steps closer and I crouch beside him to deliver two swats to his bare leg. “No, Mama said 'come'.”
Screaming. Shrill my-mother-is-abusing-me screaming. I hug him, then hold him at arms length. “Ok, we're all done. In the stroller or walking beside Mama. No more fits. All done.” I shake my hands, the sign language word “finished.”
I stand up. He signs “finished” back to me and smiles broadly. Then he holds up his arms to be picked up. I've been unhorsed.
Natasha says
My 331 word submission. Thanks for the contest!
This morning I had my teeth cleaned for the first time in a year. The hygienist worked on them for about an hour and now, as I slide my tongue over my smooth yet swollen gums, I’m wondering how my teeth still manage to remain in there. There was a lot of tugging and bleeding. If a tooth falls out tomorrow I’ll know the enormous plaque buildup had an important job after all.
Normally I’m not averse to the dentist but I am convinced that after regularly seeing one for the last seven years, he’s the reason my teeth are crooked and my gums receding. And any apprehension I may have during these visits has never been about the pain but rather that dreaded flossing question. Without fail they always pull away with my precious B+ blood still clinging to their gloves and ask how often I floss. This is followed by a little routine where I pretend I've never heard of the benefits of flossing and he pretends the reason I don’t do it is because I don’t know how.
“Flossing? Really? How do you spell that? Nope, never knew….”
But today was a little different. I was getting my teeth cleaned in Geneva, Switzerland. They do things a little differently here. Like, for example, they don’t speak English. This adds a whole new level of hysteria to the process. If she, by chance, told me she was going to do a root canal I’m pretty sure in my ignorant bliss I would have been hunky dory with it until I saw the drill. As it happened, she barely asked me any questions and we sat in silence for most of the time. It was slightly disturbing because I was so unfamiliar with it. Usually, I’m inundated with bad television, dental advice and stories about Tanya’s sister’s boyfriend’s cousin. But I think, in retrospect, when someone’s hand is in your mouth silence is really where it should be.
Jo-Ann says
“Eat your broccoli,” she’d nag every dinner. “Full of vitamins and antioxidants.”
Antioxidants are supposed to protect me from free radicals, but something free and radical would be fun to have hanging around. Unlike broccoli. I wonder if the antioxidants caused those ugly green bumps.
I’d never heard of antioxidants ‘til dad’s girlfriend moved in. Lotsa things have changed since then.
It happened because of the Kombi. No room in our garage for it, so he parked it on the road. Our Kombi had been made up of spare parts, but somebody smashed into it and turned it into spare parts. Nobody’s been making new ones for years, so I reckon one day there’ll just be a single Kombi left in the world, made up of all the Kombis that came before it.
Dad’s girlfriend, who wasn’t his girlfriend then, bought it for parts for her Kombi. It was like ours except it had dolphins painted over it. Dad looked interested when she said she ran the car off cooking oil. Poisoned the body; it was best for fuel.
She wasn’t joking. Soon after she moved in, she and dad went collecting stinky brown leftover oil from every fish and chip shop for miles, to convert into biodiesel in the garage. Soon it smelt of fried food, but in a bad way, like a witch dipping snails and small children into the oil.
If it was a trick to stop me ever eating chips again, it was working.
Maybe once I’d gone off fried food completely, they’d run it off ice-cream and chocolate, to turn me off all my faves.
I figured the dolphin Kombi would love healthy antioxidants better than greasy food. So I collected my broccoli and other veges over a few days and smashed ‘em into a goo. Antioxidant soup, just for the Kombi’s fuel tank.
It took them ages to figure why the engine was smoking and spluttering. But it proved my point: if a hippy van hated veges, why did they expect I’d like them?
SonyaTerjanian says
(From a short story I am hoping will some day give birth to a novel. Sonya Terjanian)
Dear U-Haul,
I am writing to explain that the reason your ten-foot, low-deck truck ended up upside-down in a ditch next to I-95 is that there was a bat in the glove compartment.
Let me rephrase that: the reason that everything I own in this world, including every picture I ever took and every letter I ever got, plus some really nice home accessories and a lot of clothes, is now decorating the I-95 corridor is that there was a goddamn bat in your truck’s glove compartment.
A bird would have been different. A bird would have been like a sign from God that life is beautiful. A bird would have been perfect because at that moment I happened to be crying over a story on the radio about fracking, and if anything could make me feel better about the sorry state of our planet, it would have been a beautiful bird flying out of my glove compartment like a Disney character that was going to go find some bits of ribbon and sew me a dress.
I was hoping there might be a box of tissues in the glove compartment. I think that might be something you should consider: tissues in every glove compartment. That’s the kind of thoughtful touch that could really make a difference for your corporate image. Don’t get me wrong – I like the pictures on the sides of your trucks. Mine had a giant firefly, and it said “Indiana,” and the caption said I could learn more about bioluminescence at uhaul.com. Which I would definitely do, if my laptop were not road kill. But my point is that you should think more about what’s happening on the inside of your trucks. That people driving your trucks are probably, more often than you realize, crying. And that they need a tissue. Not a bat.
Ramona's Story Time says
My submission, from a short children's story titled "George and the Boomerang"
………………………….
"They're coming to take you away, sonny-boy."
Nurse Velma turned the chair backwards and straddled it. George noticed that her legs were covered with dark, wooly, hair.
"Listen George – " her voice came out deep and raspy, " – the cops are bad news for you all right, but it's not the cops you should be worrying about."
George had opened his mouth to either ask "How do you know my name?", or "Why don't you wear dark nylons to cover your wooly legs?" but he forgot these questions under this stunning communication.
“What should I be afraid of?” he asked. Nurse Velma leaned in close.
"The Boomerang, George – the Boomerang. It will keep on following you; it always returns to its owner. Sometimes, you get more than you bargained for – take me, for instance!”
Nurse Velma rose from the chair and pulled off her — his wig to reveal a head that was nearly bald, with erratic tufts of white hair sprouting on the top like a scraggy, un-mowed lawn.
"Who are you?" gasped George.
"My name is not important," said the man. "Know this, young George: the police may catch you, lock you in an icebox with bats and keep you on broccoli and water for the next 10 years. They may volunteer you for their sadistic police-dog training practices, and call it ‘community service’. They will, admittedly, be likely to hang you by your thumbs and leave your feet exposed to the legendary, flesh-eating prison rats. But George … the Boomerang will kill you."
George heard the sound of heavy, clomping shoes, the click and scrabble of canine feet, and the jangle of a chain leash.
"It's the police, and they've brought their rabid, child-eating attack dogs," whispered the strange man. He turned his mad, twinkling eyes on George.
"Grab your clothes, boy – you'll have to go out the window."
Ramona's Story Time says
Oh, er whoops. The name is Rachel Oja.
Kathryn Elliott says
Libby whipped around, Cheeze-Its spewing. “Me?”
“Yes you! Calling Stacy Warner an uneducated silicone whore and posting her pre-lypo pictures on Facebook must cross into defamation of character?” Caroline looked to Bob for confirmation. “Counselor, your professional opinion?”
I love my wife. “Lib, we’ve talked about this.”
“Do not use that Ward Clever voice with me or I’m wearing the Don’t-Touch-Me flannels for a month!” More crackers, minimal chewing. “I know I flew off the handle, but come on! I raised over $10K for that school and we desperately need a reading teacher. But no, absolutely not, silicone whore and her evil minions have a wicked-great idea!” An unladylike gulp of wine chased down the crackers; savoring the vintage was secondary to feeling effects.
“Do I want to know about the wicked-great idea or can I safely assume it is crap?” Bob asked.
Hands on her hips, sarcasm dripped. “Oh honey, its wicked great. The PTO is going to spend $30,000 on a Kiddie Kardio Slide! Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Wait, didn’t we just have some cookie fundraiser deal for playground equipment?”
Caroline groaned, “Crap Bob; way to poke the bear.”
“What did I say?”
Fuming, Libby screeched. “Two years ago we completely renovated that damn playground! I sold more freaking cookie dough than Tollhouse! Half of which I consumed!” Hands waving madly overhead, she paced the room. “Cookie dough for exercise equipment, really? Does no one see the irony? I had to buy new pants and join Weight Watchers, but we got the flipping equipment.”
Digging into her purse, Libby tugged out the brochure. Happy, Stepford-esque children graced the cover. She read. “The Kiddie Kardio Slide has TWO ladders!” Gasp. “This exceptional bonus feature allows multiple students to experience the cardiovascular benefits of free play sliding while fostering an environment of team building and turn taking, thus successfully combating the growing epidemic of childhood obesity. Tremendous plan, don’t you think? Damn Michelle Obama and No Fat Kids agenda. Now we’ll have a school comprised of thin, team oriented illiterate children. They’ll speak without verbs, but look good in yoga pants.”
350 on the dot. From Adding Lib – my always working – work in progress. Fun idea – thanks Nathan.
Darlene Underdahl says
Wolfie’s (Surefire) Weight Loss Plan
(Transcribed By Darlene Underdahl – Wolfie doesn’t type well)
Convince at least two young, hot (to you) individuals to parade undressed and in a heightened state of sexuality in front of your house at least twenty hours a day. They are required to make eye contact through the windows.
Run up and down the stairs, pausing to look out the windows, at least twenty hours a day (if you live in a one-story house you will have to scamper from room to room).
Whine constantly, howl occasionally, pausing only if your life seems to be in peril.
Don’t eat (unless it is during the four hours the hot bodies are not in front of your house).
Don’t sleep (unless it is during the four hours the hot bodies are not in front of your house).
At the end of six weeks you will have:
Died of violence or starvation.
Lost fifty percent of your body weight.
To enroll, send a SASE and $500 to:
Wolfie (C/O Darlene Underdahl)
(Address omitted)
Wolfie will consider a blog and PayPal button, interest permitting.
Adam says
This is from the start of an older project. Hope you enjoy. 🙂
Adam Slade
____
Gregor stooped and plucked an ashen skull from a pile of bones in the bottom of one of the stasis pods.
"Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him well." He peered in through the eye sockets. "Always wanted to say that."
"That's not Sergeant Yorick." Craig pointed to another pod. "That is."
"Oh. Then who's this?"
He brushed the dust from the name plate on the pod. "Private Steve Cooper."
"Bah." Gregor dropped the skull. "I hated Steve."
Craig watched, mystified, as his superior pushed past him and picked up the correct skull then began to recite the same verse. Another of the troops stepped forward.
"Commander, what are your orders?"
Gregor spun, the skull still in his hand, and regarded the private for a few seconds longer than necessary. "I wasn't finished."
The private glanced at the skull, then back at the commander. "With respect, sir, Yorick was a friend of mine."
"Then you'll want me to finish his send off, no?" He didn't let the private reply. "There's a good man!"
"Then you'll want to say it right," a voice added from behind them. "It's 'Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.'"
Gregor shrugged. "I prefer the misquote, thank you, doctor. I cannot stand Shakespeare."
"Then why–"
The doctor was cut off by the sound of the skull shattering on the steel floor.
"Too late, you spoiled the moment."
Whirlochre says
Ever the shameless opportunist, I’ve come over all space kid in the hope of winning a prize.
Rolan swallowed hard. There was something about the creature’s eyes that disturbed him — particularly the fourth and the sixth. “I guess this is the part where I get eaten, right?”
“Wrong.” The creature teased out a comm device from a curiously evolved flap of skin perfect for something a little smaller. “Stop my Ma tracking me all over the time-space continuum and you can live. Then I eat you.”
Icons twinkled from the comm screen, all proclaiming: YOU MAY BE A TECH WIZ, ROLAN — BUT NOT IN THIS SECTOR. But at least a device he couldn’t fix might buy him a little time with the being eaten deal. He dug around in his guitar case for a tuning fork. “Where I come from, this thing works wonders…”
The creature eyed him suspiciouslylylylylyly. “No funny business, kid.”
As Rolan tinkered theatrically with fork and comm, the absence of leeway for any kind of funny business bore down hard on his skull like a black hole vacuum set to BLOW. In desperation, he struck the fork against what might have been an earphone socket and — tink — the opening note to Meggerdetth Mayhemme resounded through the grim subterranean hangar.
The creature’s eyebrows danced in a frenzy and Rolan ducked instinctively, fearing the gnash of teeth and the swish of claws. Instead, the creature purred and rolled onto its back. “Ooooh! Me likey!”
“Really?” said Rolan. “You wanna some morey?”
The slirruppy dual bratwurst nightmare which passed for the creature’s mouth formed itself into a beaming smile. “Tickle me till I can’t take it no more, Earth-beest.”
Rolan didn’t need telling what to do (even though he just had been) and with deft rinky-tinks of the fork along the hangar walls he lulled the purring creature into a state of submission that was half slumber, half orgasm — and a quarter something he didn’t recognise at all, but was nonetheless very glad about. When weird oozes began squirting from hitherto unseen spiracles, Rolan picked up his guitar case and headed back in the direction of his band’s tour saucer…
elephanta says
Sarah Diehl-349 words:
Ruby Dee was standing on Barley Street at two in the afternoon, in flannel pajamas decorated with popsicles. The popsicles- had they been real- would have melted on the spot in such sweltering August heat. And the patent leather shoes- what were those for! A jazz recital? Had Ruby been a girl of six, not much would seem off, but she was older than that for certain. One might even assume she was a legal adult, from the Marlboro red dangling out of that pout. I happened to know that Ruby Dee was a tall fourteen.
She dropped the bogey and gave it a decent stomping before she marched across the street. She boarded the porch at 1212 Barley and let herself through the unlocked door. All with such ease, no one would suspect that she was in fact an intruder.
At the foot of the staircase was just what Ruby was here for: the shoe rack. Ruby tip-toe hopped over with arms retracted like Dracula. She fondled shoes; men’s loafers, espadrilles, old tennies- and then her pupils dilated. She slowly removed the glossy patent leathers from her offensively red (presumably odorous) feet and lifted up a lovely pair of chestnut brown lace up sandals. Jesus sandals to be precise- as if this villain had a saintly bone in her body!
Ruby put them on; there was an inch at the toe, but no matter. She crisscrossed the laces in an ecstasy. When it was done she lit another Marlboro red and stood up. The staircase creaked.
“Hello Ruby,” I said.
She saw me and bolted. The oversized sandals slowed her down some, but she made it down the street in good time for a cigarette smoker. I wondered at the injustice- I was struggling mightily to keep up- me a healthy eleven year old kid in Nikes.
This girl was sick, and I don’t just mean in the head. She stole shoes; in return she left behind the previously stolen pair. The most heinous of all charges- Ruby Dee was a spreader of Trichophyton. That’s right: foot fungus.
Watcher55 says
Disclaimer: The account you’re probably about to read is semi-fictitious. Any resemblance to a real person or event is entirely intentional, but I have already notified my Wit-sec handlers and I’m filing suit against me next week.
“Nine two-six–one oh. Nine-two–six—one-oh.” I always sing my new zip code when I move – it helps me decide if I’m going to like a place or not. I think I’m going to like Foothill Ranch California. My name is Pen’ninde` Pende` (from the Greek for fifty-five) Waters; it used to be Karl P. Bensley, but that was before I ratted out a Memphis-based Don — Don Pardo — who isn’t really a Don. He’s just a well connected thug who’s taking advantage of his unfortunate name. Here’s what happened.
My pretend agent and I stopped at Huey’s to have a sandwich and to discuss my impending fame for the book I’m going to write: CINDY SHELTON HAD A LITTLE LAMB. Well, we finished our sandwich and we were using our straws like blowguns to stick toothpicks in the ceiling when Don Pardo walked into the place, and every conversation stopped. Naturally, I thought everyone was just amazed at my skill with a straw so, forgetting that my head tends to make me top-heavy, I took a bow and fell down. By the time I lifted my face off the floor, every potential witness (including my pretend agent) had left the building.
It was just me, Don Pardo, and the unfortunate man trapped in a corner booth. Don Pardo pulled a gun and showed me the answer to that old question: Who killed Cock Robin? So — here I am, hiding from a petty mobster in Foothill Ranch California until it’s time to testify against Don Pardo later this year. The Marshals told me the trial, and my testimony, is a secret; that’s why I’m posting about it. This is a blog isn’t it, and isn’t a blog where writer’s are supposed to keep their best secrets?
“Nine two-six–one oh. Nine-two–six—one-oh.”
Emily says
The woman stared at us through her sunglasses. She was one of those suburban mom types.
An iphone ping sounded out from somewhere in her purse. It wasn’t one of those designer purses or anything, but something from Dom’s Outdoor Outfitters. You know, the kind of purse that would survive a trek on Everest. Probably reminding her about piano lessons or lacrosse or something. She took the phone out of her purse and looked at it.
“Frak,” she said under her breath.
Mel and Jen stopped counting their money and looked pointedly at me. “Starbuck, did you hear that,” Mel whispered. “She’s one of us.”
“Frak doesn’t mean anything,” I said with conviction. I tried not to look at the woman who was trying to order donuts. Instead I watched my friends count their money. Jen had piles of dimes stacked in front of her, ten high and was starting on the nickels. Mel had a sandwich bag full of pennies.
We were at Donut Wheel for our first CCFBM. Comic-Con Fund-raising Brainstorming Meeting. Mel insisted on acronyms for everything, which was why her dog was named LC for Little Chewbacca. Watching them count the money was depressing. I mean, we wanted to have enough money to go to Comic Con and we didn’t even have enough to buy a frakking donut.
And then suddenly the woman was sitting at the table next to us with a box of donuts. She opened the box and spun it around our direction so that the open box, full of the best hand picked assortment possible, faced us. I swear I could smell the maple bar.
She dusted a little powdered sugar from her finger and said, “Want some?” Jen and Mel practically dove into the box to grab some chocolate raised. I, with a little more dignity, took a maple bar, licking the sugary frosting from my finger.
“Nice bag,” she said as she bit into a raspberry filled. “The Eye of Jupiter?”
I looked down at my hand-painted canvas bag. “Frak me,” I said.
“So say we all,” she said wisely.
Catherine Lavoie says
This is a scene from my women's fiction WIP.
—————
"There he is," Shane says, pointing to a man who’s cursing and struggling with a suitcase. "That's my friend Nate."
I notice the pained expression on Nate's face and the way his feet seem to be stuttering on the sidewalk. "Why is he limping?"
"Old rugby injury. His knee flares up whenever it's humid. I guess it wasn't a good idea to bring him to a tropical island, was it?"
Nate's eyes are so close to shooting actual daggers at us that I almost feel like ducking. "Maybe not."
He stops in front of Shane and takes a deep breath. "How was First Class? Did you enjoy your flight? Awesome. Dude, there was no leg room in Coach. No. Leg. Room. And the stewardess or flight attendant or whatever you're supposed to call them these days gave me a vegetarian meal because apparently I requested one in advance. Do I look like the kind of man who enjoys broccoli with a side of spinach? No. I wanted the gray chicken with the side of runny mashed potatoes that the guy next to me was having. And don't get me started on the guy next to me. The snoring…"
"Zoey, this is Nate," Shane says, interrupting him mid-sentence. "He's a bit cranky today."
Nate nods in my general direction and I bet that the rest of his rant is playing inside his head and we'll get to enjoy the second half later.
"Nate, this is Zoey. We met on the plane. We’re all going to the same resort. Isn’t that great?"
"Bloody awesome," I hear him mutter under his breath.
Shane points to a long-haired man wearing a straw skirt and holding a sign: MOMENT OF ZEN SPA AND RELAXATION WELLNESS CENTRE. WELCOME TO PARADISE! "That’s us."
Nate looks me in the eye for the first time since we’ve met. “Please, Joey. Kill me now.”
“It’s Zoey,” I say, helping him with his suitcase. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it sounds.”
"C'mon, it'll be an adventure," Shane says as we walk (and limp) to the waiting car.
—————
Thanks for the contest, Nathan! 🙂
patti wigington says
“Whatever became of your husband, Jenna?” cooed Lucia.
“Oh, we divorced when Steffi was just a few years old,” I said, spearing a crepe with my fork.
Lucia’s eyes went wide with horror, and flicked towards the camera, humming along in all of its reality-show filming glory. “Oh, surely you mean he died, don’t you, dear? After all, no one in proper society gets divorced these days.”
I lathered my toast with butter and dipped it into a bowl of jam. “No, really, I divorced him.”
Alex cleared his throat at Lucia’s feigned look of shock. “Now, Lucia, let’s not mind other peoples’ business. I’m sure Mrs. Montrose doesn’t want to discuss it.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” I admitted. “We had a problem with the neighbors.”
Lucia paused, her spoon in mid-air. “You got a divorce because of a problem with the neighbors?” she asked incredulously.
I nodded, nibbling a bite of toast.
“My goodness. It must have been a rather dramatic problem. What was wrong with your neighbors?” Lucia leaned forward eagerly, eyes wide.
“Well,” I said, licking jam from my fingertips daintily, “my husband couldn’t seem to keep his penis out of them. Pass the kippers, please.”
Valerie Rieker says
My humor is gentle at best, but I wanted to play. 😀
Excerpted from a WIP.
—
Bridget had also hoped that changing directions would make traveling easier, but going North was a lot like going East: they got scrapes, rashes, bug bites, struggled to find food, and bickered with each other. The food was always cold, the nights even colder, and they still weren’t sure if they were going the right way.
“Keppeh nah! We will never find it at dis rate,” Reece said.
“Would you stop whinen?” Nissa said.
“Well! Dis place looks like all de others. Here, dis tree! I swear I hev peed by dis tree.”
“Reece…” Bridget said.
“Whot? Et least I deed not sey I poo—“
“Reece!” Nissa and Bridget cried.
Reece looked to Lorne, who clapped him on the back without a word and kept walking.
L. Vendrell says
She is still there. I just know it. There has to be some way to kill more time. Because of that, and because my hangover is in a rage, I stop at Taco Bell. In line I realize that my roommates will tear into whatever I leave unguarded. The revelation forces quantity over quality and I order just about everything on the menu.
The aroma of processed Mexican food mixes with the gerbil stench of my car for the whole of the drive to my house.
I turn into my cul-de-sac. Something is wrong. A giant black truck spit black exhaust in my driveway. Big chunks of metal lift its body off the axle. Maggie and her son are caught in some argument near the back tire.
I open the door and get out. Both of them stop and shoot me down with glare the equivalent of gatling guns. The weight of those stares is too much and I have to look away. Three young girls skip robe across the street. They shouldn't have to see this. Hell, I shouldn't have to see this.
Maggie pulls away from her son and starts towards me. “The hell did you go?” The rolled up openings of the bags crumple in my hands. “You son-of-a-bitch, you leave me in that shithole of a room. I should let Thad kick your ass. He wants to, oh how he wants to."
I swallow. It's not like I can blame him.
Maggie screams, “What, you think that you can screw and run?”
Her words are a punch to her son's gut.
So much for her being gone when I returned –so much for my nap. I know I need to do anything, but I'm kind of locked in place. She gets closer, and I hold up the only thing I have: the bags of Taco Bell.
“The hell is that?” she asks.
The bags move back and forth — a pendulum between us, ticking off the seconds until my reply. “I went to get us breakfast.”
wry wryter says
“Why is it,“ Meg said as she sipped her seltzer, “when you have a baby no one tells you about the gross parts, like finding baby poop under your nails after you’ve washed your hands, or constipation or leaking nipples.
“I’m never giving birth,” Viv said.
“I wish I could say that,” the waitress walking by added. “I’ve got two kids. Three if you count my husband”.
“We’re talking about the yucky stuff no one tells you about after you have a baby, “Viv said.
“Gas,” the waitress said, “it was the worst. I could fart a blue haze; even out-fart my husband.”
The women at the next table heard the conversation.
“My farts used to wake up my baby.” A woman said.
“Hey girls, my son is twenty-four, my daughter twenty-one and the only thing those kids ever gave me was hemorrhoids.”
“That’s nothin’” another said, “I had twin boys. My boobs got so big I couldn’t walk upright until they went to kindergarten.” Women in the crowded bar joined in.
“After thirty-two hours of labor I had to have a C-section anyway.” The females groaned.
“Must have been a male doctor, they love to see us tortured.”
A man in a baseball cap spoke up, “I had a tooth pulled once.” Silence. The woman next to him pulled his hat off and hit him over the head with it.
“I delivered our baby,” A brave man said while looking lovingly into the eyes of his wife. “We were on our way to the hospital when our little girl couldn’t wait to be born.”
The room went quiet. “My wife was so strong and I was so proud. One big push and into my hands my beautiful daughter appeared. I cannot express how grateful I was to my beautiful wife for presenting me with such a wonderful gift. It was a miracle.” The wife smiled, the crowd quietly sighed.
“But” he said in a firm voice, “I don’t think I’ve seen anything as gross and disgusting as that kid squirting out and sliding home.”
minorleaguemom says
Condensed version of a blog post entitled, "Pam the Android"
Charley and I enter the bedroom together. He has already brushed his teeth and flossed, while I was cleaning up the kitchen. He takes off his clothes, throws on an old tee shirt with his shorts, and sets the alarm. I am lucky if I have even put away my shoes, earrings, and watch, while he turns out his lamp. I finish changing into my pajamas by the light in the bathroom. I used to wear sexy lace babydolls, but that was twenty years ago. I graduated to full-length lacy nightgowns, but that was ten years ago. Now I wear flannel pajamas as a courtesy to my legs, that twitch or cramp after long tennis matches.
In the bathroom, I rub ointment on my rotator cuff. I reach for my three containers of vitamins, then my soy supplement, cholesterol pill, calcium, fish oil. I hear Charley's rhythmic breathing coming from the bed. How do men do that? I still have nine steps before I hit the mattress.
I must use water to transform fiber powder into a thick, yellow liquid I can barely swallow. A rinse of antiseptic follows brushing and flossing – I don't know why I bother with the antiseptic, since the only person who might smell my breath is sound asleep!
Next I insert a clear plastic appliance in my mouth that will keep my jaw from grinding at night and forming ridges in my teeth. I wash my makeup off with an exfoliant for my clogged pores and carefully wipe eye liner off with astringent pads. I smear green goop that promises miracles under my eyes, around my mouth, and across my forehead. A topcoat of polish goes on my nails. That stuff stinks! Almost finished.
I reach into the bottom of the closet and grab the contoured foam pillow that I will position between my legs, in case my dislocated disc acts up. I grab wrist braces for my carpal tunnel and turn out the bathroom light.
Charley rolls and kisses good-night, a token to our yesterdays. "I guess we won't be having spontaneous sex tonight," he mumbles.