Contest!!
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:
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| 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
The kitchen window was open and Eddie could smell lunch cooking as he walked up the back steps: fried bologna sandwiches. His favorite.
"Hello, brother," Tina said, smearing a slice of soft white bread with a wave of mayo. She topped it with a slice of bologna, shrunk from being fried, and burnt around the edges, just the way Eddie liked it, and gently set another airy slice of bread on top. Tina lifted the plate to her nose and sniffed.
"Mmm mmm, good!" she said.
Eddie didn't say anything.
"Do you want it?" Tina asked, holding out the plate. Eddie knew this trick by heart.
"No," he said.
"No, really," Tina said. "Do you want it?"
"No!" Eddie said.
"I mean it," Tina said. "You can have it if you want it. Want it?"
Eddie hesitated.
"It's still warm," Tina said. "And the bread's really fresh. And I put lots of mayo on it. Do you want it?"
"Okay," Eddie said, holding out his hand. "Yes!"
"Sucker!" Tina said, pulling the plate back and laughing.
When Tina stopped laughing she pushed the plate against Eddie's chest.
"I was just kidding," she said. "Here, you can have it. Eat up, before it gets cold! Um. There is one little thing I wanted to ask you."
"What?" Eddie asked, grabbing the sandwich and taking a bite before Tina could pull the plate back again.
"Can I borrow those good marker pens you got at Goodwill last week?"
"I don't know," Eddie said with his mouth full of a second, larger, bite of sandwich. "Those are really good pens. Professional artist ones." Eddie didn't use marker pens himself. He only bought them because they were cheap and he knew Tina loved marker pens and would secretly drool when she saw they were the kind real artists used, and would start making plans on how she could get her hands on them. Eddie's had made plans of his own, about what he could get out of Tina if he let her use them. Fried bologna sandwiches were an excellent start.
I think mine is a tad different, more sarcastic humor. But funny is funny, right? It is 204 words, I believe, just a small excerpt from a suspense romance I'm currently working on.
———
I stared dumbfounded at him and the fact that he was even speaking to me. One of the nice things about being me was that people generally steered clear of me. Sure, they meant it offensively, but at least they left me alone.
“Sorry you got kicked out,” he said. “That wasn't cool of him.”
I remained quiet. I was the last person an all-star like him would associate with and I was certain the moment I spoke, tar and feathers would materialize all over me.
“Wow. You really don't talk, do you?” he said.
I thought maybe I would put some of the rumors to the test and curse him somehow. I squinted real hard, thinking of the most demeaning things I thought would be good to conjure up. Maybe I could turn him into a unicorn. I'd like to see him lead an undefeated soccer season with hooves. Rumor had it the Los Angeles Galaxy were considering him to play professionally. He'd be the talk of the team sporting a horn on his head that sparkled. I suppose I could do him a little justice and make him brown. He did have exquisite skin, the color of brown sugar.
It started as a simple thing: “Can I have your cookie?”
Steven wasn’t very hungry anymore, and was rather distracted picking the tendons from his teeth; Nevil wasn’t thinking, and that was normal enough. Satan was on his throne, and the rest of Hell was either feasting or beginning their belching rendition of a bullfrog choir.
The question itself was excusable; it could have been ignored as sniveling stupidity. But Steven’s permissive grunt, mixed with a half-shrug, brought the festivities to a fingernail-grinding halt even as Nevil’s mangy hand grasped the cookie and raced it towards his mouth.
Eternal time slowed thusly:
1. As Nevil’s claws sunk into the doughy delectable, Satan’s armrests exploded beneath his white-knuckled grip.
2. As the cookie journeyed through space towards Nevil’s mouth, the hordes of Hell wretched, then gasped, then fell deathly silent.
3. Nevil slowed in not-understood fear, even as the joints of the vaulted cavern popped, raining gristle and grime from the mortar in the joists.
4. The cookie bumped to a halt, its first crumbs already wet with saliva, pressed against the foolish demon’s front teeth—and a guttural, dry-heaving wail lurched out of the Lord of Hell’s innards.
“Who..?” the Lord Satan gasped, air whistling over his dripping fangs, “…shared…!” he demanded; white eyed demons trembled with fear, not knowing whether to flee or search for the offender, “… their COOKIE?!?”
A low howl sounded far off, and an icy wind began to blow through the halls of Hell…
Excerpt from High Fantasy book. 300 words.
It's at least a little humorous.
—
"I don't know where the honey comes from, but the fruit's fairy grown," said Zarek.
Naren's eyes widened as he looked at the elf. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?"
Zarek shrugged. " While fairies might use their magic to help them grow and taste better, they make sure they're fit for human consumption."
Zarek took one and bit into it. "Just making sure, you know." The whole apple disappeared into his mouth. "That one was safe. Let me check this one." He grabbed another and took a bite.
Naren grabbed one and examined it. "So the fairies use magic to grow them?"
Auden nodded and snatched one. This time, Naren lifted the bag up out of their reach.
"Just a little," Auden said, rubbing the apple on his shirt, unoffended by Naren's action. "Mostly, they use a lot of common sense. The magic just helps it along."
Naren nodded and tossed apples to the men and to Strela and Kamra.
"We'll have the honey later. Puill, put it in your things. You can't possibly eat it and ride."
Puill hurried to put the honey jar away. He wanted to sneak his finger into the golden, gooey goodness. Just for a taste. He tried to pry the jar open. It was sealed shut.
Disappointed, he shoved it into one of his bags.
"I saw that," Naren told him when he returned to where the group were standing.
Puill grinned at him, but said nothing.
Naren took out one of the unidentifiable fruits and turned it around in his hands. "So, what's this?"
Zarek shrugged and then looked at Auden. They both looked at Naren. "We don't know."
Naren took a bite of it. "Whatever it is, it tastes good."
“Alright, that’s my song.” Mom rolls down her window, singing like she’s the only one around. And horrible, too. Like a yelping cat. Her red curls dance every time her head bobs.
I cringe in the back seat and stick my backpack over my face, hoping no one sees me. The first day of middle school is going to be just as awful as I imagined. I haven’t even made it all the way up the packed car rider line, and Mom’s already embarrassing me. And it’s not even cool music. Some band called Pearl Jam. Who names their rock band after something you spread on a sandwich?
But that not what I’m focusing on now. I see, out of the corner of my half-hidden eye, Janie Sanders walk by. Her blue eyes catch mine through the glass, and she laughs, whispering something into Katie Ross’s ear. Probably something like: ‘Simon Pierce is a geeky freak.’ And would she be wrong? She’s a goddess in Hello Kitty, and I’m still wearing Star Wars shirts Mom buys for me—and playing with Star Wars Legos.
Enough is enough. I take my shirt off, not caring who sees, and turn it inside out before slipping it back over my head.
“What are you doing?” Mom furrows her brow in the rearview mirror.
“I’m being a man, Mom. No, wait. I’m being the man.” I throw open the door and sling my backpack over my shoulder. “Don’t worry. I can walk from here.”
My blouse smells like hot dog again.
Damn it. How does this happen?
Think.
I showered, dressed for the interview, walked to the subway…
Hot dog.
#%&^ !!
They’re made from hedgehogs. I’d eat one if there was a chance it’d get me sex.
Not sure how that circumstance would arise.
8:05. I’m late. Avery Insurance. Twenty yards.
I swing through double glass doors and check in at the desk. Temp badge.
The elevator is… dear Lord… is everyone late?
Pile in. Pile in.
“I need the fifth floor.”
I can feel something on my ass. Wedging itself in.
Was that a ding?
Air.
I find door 522.
Finally.
“I’m here to see Mr. Benevidez.”
“Be right with you, Miss…”
“Adams.”
The receptionist nods at me like I’m hot. Score.
Really?
I sit. These magazines are older than my mom. I’m too nervous anyway. Have to nail this.
A door opens.
“Miss Adams?”
I look down. He’s four feet. Maybe less?
“I’m Ray Benevidez. Let me take you back.”
He just spit on my crotch.
His desk is like an arc. He seems to be hanging from it.
He stares at me. Hard. He smells something. I know it.
“Do you know how to make copies?”
“Yes.”
“We need someone to make copies.”
“I thought this was sales.”
“Who told you that?”
“You did. On the phone.”
“Now it’s making copies.”
“Why?”
“You were late. You smell like Wienerschnitzel.”
“I have no idea.”
“About the copies?”
“About the food. Does it matter?”
“Do you want the job?”
“Yeah.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I shake his hand.
Outside I see a hot dog vendor. He eyes me creepily.
I don’t know. I think I slept with him once.
Oh, what an awesome idea! Thanks, Nathan.
Okay, for fun’s sake!
And because I REALLY want that ARC! 😉
WASHING HANDS
The hens clucked and pecked at the corn around my feet. My two-year-old chased them, trying to touch their feathers—or maybe he was just trying to pluck one to play “Indians” later. He deftly avoided the chicken poop on the ground and weaved his way around the trees. The hens clucked some more.
“Can’t catch them. Too hard,” he said.
“Here, grab some bran and feed them. They will come.”
He smiled and opened his little hand for me to pour the bran in there. I’d thought he’d be happy to take the food, but instead he looked at the husks in disgust, frowning, and clapped the bran away.
“What happened?” I asked.
“My hands dirty.” He spat onto both of his palms, and then rubbed them together. “I’m washing hands now, Mommy, see?”
[Btw, this happened to me yesterday… so it’s a true story ;D]
I can’t walk. Every muscle is screaming in pure agony when I do anything, like say, breathing. My thighs are on fire and with the way I was hobbling around today, I am pretty sure I could have parked in a handicapped spot without being questioned.
I’d like to say that it’s the result of really good sex, but nope! I’m walking bow-legged right now because I am so out of shape that two days into my Wii Active 30-Day Challenge has me wishing I could reach into my television set and strangle the perky little electronic bitch of a personal trainer I have.
The program works the hell out of you, I have to admit, and blows the Wii Fit out of the water when it comes to a real workout. There’s a calendar that helps keep you on track with work out days and rest days, an option for logging in time spent on other activities, and keeps track of calories projected versus calories. Plus, the character I put together actually looks like me. Chia pet curls and all.
“Am I that fat right now?” I asked The Husband as I was trying to decide between full hips and “Baby’s Got Back.” My mother and Pati, both home because it’s hard to make friends when their social circle has yet to extend beyond my own, look at The Husband, eyes wide in expectation.
“Am I going to get hit if I say yes?” He dodges an imaginary pillow. I say nothing and click save on the chick with the badonkatonk butt while my mother and sister collapse into laughter.
THE PIRATE AND THE PEE PEE DANCE
346 words
The dusty Old West façade is littered with actors in various cowboy costumes preparing to audition for our western TV series. One wears chaps, another spurs, but the one that stands out the most is the guy walking toward me. He wears gray wool pants smeared with dirt, his flannel shirt is tattered in a very theatrical manner, his hair is greasy and tousled, and his face is in desperate need of a washing. He looks like he might even give off an authentic odor. But above all that, what gets me is the eye patch. An eye patch!
I make myself look busy in the hopes that he doesn’t approach. But then I have to look again; it’s just too hard not to look. Now he’s made eye contact with his one “good” eye. Great. He nods a hello and then asks me a question about the material. But I don’t hear the question. I only hear the strange way the words come out of his mouth. Is he doing an accent? Is it Irish? Is it Pirate? I ask him to repeat the question. He does. He IS doing a pirate accent! I tell him that the writer will be in the audition and he can answer the question better than I can, but this doesn’t get him to leave. He continues to talk to me in character. Not creepy at all.
Soon we start the auditions. After several actors, it’s the pirate’s turn. When he comes into the room, the producers look over at me and raise an eyebrow. I shrug. I warned them about him before hand, but they obviously thought I was exaggerating. He then proceeds to audition as a pirate and he adds this little dance where he holds his knees together and sort of prances side to side.
When he leaves we all look at each other. No one knows what to say. And then the executive producer finally speaks. “Was that a pirate doing a pee pee dance?”
Why yes, yes it was.
He didn’t get the role.
“Meg, it would be great to date such wonderful chef.”
“I might even be able to get past his crazy nostril hair if he cooked for me every day,” I said.
“Nostril hair, huh? I guess genius doesn’t need to look pretty. I mean, Einstein had that disheveled look, while Edison had those freaky intense eyes, and I heard that Mozart had a third nipple,” Alex said.
“How could you possibly know that Mozart had a third nipple?”
“That’s just what I heard on the street.”
“People on the street are talking about Mozart’s nipple?”
“Yep.”
“Okay. Listen; forget about Mozart’s nipple for a minute. We need to drop by Adrianna’s office on our lunch break.”
Once we arrived at Garner Industries, we headed straight for the elevator which was bigger and much fancier than my bathroom. Two businessmen got on with us, eyeing our scruffiness with distaste. Business Guy # 1 looked at us with a sneer, while business Guy # 2 tried not to make eye contact. They hastily moved to the far side of the elevator.
The elevator was playing a jazzed up rendition of ‘The Girl From Impanima’
Alex started humming along and then switched to some realistic trumpet sounds to accompany the music. The businessmen took a step further away.
Alex then switched to singing in a high falsetto voice and I acted like it was completely normal.
The men were now practically hugging the wall of the elevator.
I leaned over to Alex and said,” Did you take your medication today?”
“I don’t think so.” he answered in the falsetto voice.
“Just promise that you won’t take your clothes off again.”
“I’ll try,” he answered, now in a wonderful imitation of Ethel Merman. Despite his promise, he started fidgeting with the top button of his jeans.
Business man #1 reached over and frantically pushed the next floor’s button, and when the doors opened they almost knocked each other over in their haste to get out.
When the doors closed, we collapsed in laughter.
I sell heckacool Jeeps. And I sell them in a way that kicks the butts off people. After they’ve signed the paperwork, most folks step out of my office with their faces melted clean off. In a good way. In a “I just bought the crap out of that Jeep” kind of way. The Toyota dealership across the street thinks I’m a god. I don’t let them anywhere near me though. I don’t want their snot-nosed sales numbers getting stains on my sequin jacket.
This morning my crew arrived at 2am to prepare for the 6am opening. And no pansy-butt bagels or pastries to eat. Just coffee beans to chew on and some Slim Jims. My beagle, Macho Man Randy Savage, was there and he howled at them if they didn’t work hard. He doesn’t take crap. Macho Man Randy Savage will gnaw your freakin’ thumb knuckle off.
Three minutes before six, I began the “Call of the Jepo,” (pronounced Heh-po). At my signal, Jennifer the temp pressed the Red Button which set off explosions on the sidewalks in front of the store and sent confetti into the sky. I donned my Jepo cape and ascended a mini-Mayan pyramid parked near the street (I bought the pyramid half off after it was rejected as a float for the Macy’s parade). At its pinnacle, upon a Mayan sacrificial altar, sat a new Toyota Prius. I took a chainsaw to that little carbon candy foot until its front bumper and headlights rolled down the steps of the pyramid and crashed upon the street in front of the Toyota dealership. I could see one of their new salesmen wetting himself. I gave Jennifer another signal, and four more explosions went off, this time with fireworks. I jumped on the Prius and cried out in a great voice, “Bienvenidos al Hhhhhepoooooo!” The Call of the Jepo was completed – the same Call given every morning.
And it worked like a charm. Within twenty-four minutes, there was probably about fifteen kabillion trillion people on my lot wanting to buy one of my heckasweet Jeeps.
This is a condensed entry from my blog, funnier with wine. It's a horrifyingly true story.
Early in our marriage, my husband and I considered renting a carriage house on the grounds of a gorgeous mansion. My mom and I went to check it out.
The cordial homeowner even offered us – the little house wannabees – a tour of the Big House. We jumped at the offer and I had visions of future Christmases in their parlor.
As we wandered through the rambling abode, my mom chatted on about clubs and decorators and other things to let this lady know that we were not as white trash as we appeared, and thus would not have keggers or hang my husband’s tighty whities in their backyard.
Talk then turned to dogs and mother admitted to having “four big dogs and a horse named Bimbo who sticks his head in the bedroom window.” The woman, holding her Pomeranian in one hand and her strand of pearls in the other, was trying to act like we didn’t remind her of the Clampetts.
In the amazing, glass-walled solarium, I peered out at the formal gardens and saw Mom – in my peripheral vision – lean over and pick something up. In the hall, I noticed her holding her hand cupped as if cradling a baby chick.
Except it wasn’t a chick at all.
Oh my God, I whispered. Why are you holding a turd?
I thought it was a leaf.
Well, it’s not, so how about you put it back where you found it?
About this time, the woman heard us whispering, turned around and was aghast that a) there was poop on her floor and b) this woman was parading through the house with it.
Let me get you a paper towel, she gasped.
And what did mom say? She said, Oh, no, it’s fine… I do this all the time.
Seriously mom? I do this all the time???
We finished the tour in silence born of mortification, society lady’s heels click-clicking faster on the gleaming hardwoods, me still coveting the Big House, and mom, bringing up the rear, cradling the turd.
We got an apartment. And we had keggers.
Kristen went in first. “Isn't this breaking and entering?” she asked
“Nah,” Staci replied. “The door was wide open. What did we break?”
The a chorus of chortles were hastily stifled when they heard a slurred voice call out, “Who's there?”
They froze in their tracks. Lizzy's heart pounded. “No,” she thought to herself. “Not him. Not here. Not now.”
“I'm warning you, said the voice. “I'm armed.”
Phil, the Inebriated Cajun, Lizzy's nemesis and one-time fiance.
“Staci,” whispered a pale Kristen. “Did you bring your nunchucks?”
“No,” she mumbled, digging in her pockets. “But…oh, lemme see…I've got a dime. And a used wet wipe.”
“Not to worry, ladies,” said Lizzy. “I've got this.” She didn't feel too worried. She was wearing her new stylish-casual tennis shoes.
Phil sauntered into the hall as Lizzy reached into her purse to retrieve her cell phone.
“Phil, my old nemesis. Somehow I thought you might be involved in all this. Stealing refrigerators indeed!”
Phil the Inebriated Cajun took a swig of something brown in a bottle.
“Lizzy!” He said her name with undisguised affection. “You always were the meddlesome type. It's been a while since Nicaragua, eh?”
“Not long enough. Tell me the whole plan!”
“Lizzy,” Kristen squeaked. “Are you sure you should be aggravating this guy? He looks kinda mean.”
“I know what I'm doing,” Lizzy said, her eyes fixed on Phil's.
“Muhahaha!” laughed Phil. “As if I'd tell you.”
“Then you leave me no choice.”
“Lizzy, don't you think we should call the Police?” hissed Staci.
But it was too late. Lizzy had already pressed the call button on her cell phone, which activated the alcohol-seeking missiles hidden in her new stylish-casual tennis shoes.
Megan gave a fluttery little laugh, which immediately made me think of a plastered Katherine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story when she’s canoodling with a plastered Jimmy Stewart on the night before her wedding. Megan is kind of like Katherine Hepburn in some ways. Here, though, Jimmy never made it to the stage; here we substituted a drunken copyeditor.
And Hepburn probably never actually got loop-dee-looped with the help, and never while wearing a come-hither-to-the-Casbah outfit.
Since Megan had flipped a couple of big pillows under and around her, and sort of draped herself under and around them, said harem-girl’s outfit had now opened up around the midriff, exposing a band of soft, pale tummy. Sweet tummy, thought the half-blind man. That man was me.
I patted her stomach a bit like you’d pat an agreeable daschund. That didn’t seem right, so I put my palm flat on her warm belly and stroked it a little, watching my hand make its weird path. I didn’t want to look at her face, because sozzled as I was, I was still conscious that this was Megan, the Empress of the Day Planner, the woman who silenced the conversation of various minions when she moved past cubicles, the woman who I thought might actually push my novel in front of some gullible, rich publisher. Megan. My boss.
Hi Nathan, 🙂
Here's a chunk out of my historical gothic adventure novel,
SEBASTIAN AND THE HAUNTED UNCLE
Most people have worries of some kind in their lives. An actor, for example, might worry about forgetting her lines, while a plumber probably worries about what would happen if he got his head stuck in a drainpipe during a rainstorm. You may worry about the multiplication tables, or about whether your baby brother is being eaten by ants while you're away at school. But unless you're very unlucky, your worries are nowhere near as disturbing as Sebastian Mortimer's.
That's because, in the days when this story happened, the word “insane” meant something quite different from what it means now. Nowadays your mother might yell, “PHOEBE!” (Or “CAMILLE!” if that happens to be your name.) “STOP SHOOTING ARROWS IN THE HOUSE! YOU'RE DRIVING ME INSANE!” If you ignored her, the worst that would probably happen is that some of her hair might fall out.
But in Sebastian's day, insane people were truly terrifying. They screamed and muttered for no reason. They dressed in filthy grey rags (the men), or else in moth-eaten old wedding gowns with mice nesting in the hem (the women.) They usually lived in the attics of their relatives' houses, fastened to the wall with a length of chain.
Sebastian made another note:
If Uncle Osric’s not a lunatic, why didn’t my parents ever tell me about him?
Maybe they just forgot. Both of Sebastian's parents were Egyptologists. Their brains were crammed so full of rock tombs and secret passages that they often forgot they even had a son. Once Professor Julian Mortimer mistook him for a very short footman and ordered him to fetch the whiskey. Once Professor Julia Mortimer mistook him for a burglar and almost pushed him out an upstairs window before she remembered who he was.
Something about restaurants seemed to get Jack in a lot of trouble. So he told Dad it was crazy, taking Mom out for an elegant brunch on Mother’s Day. But Dad insisted, and that was that.
Awash in sunshine, the serene French restaurant, La Belle Fleur, sounded like a bus crash with cutlery clanking and howling babies. Kids, looking dandy in their dresses and suits, sat neatly combed, polished, and angry, cheeks and chins sandpapered as red as a sunburn. Mom looked beautiful, smiling in a patch of sunlight in her pink floral dress. She wore a red rose behind her ear, cut from her garden by Dad that morning. It made Jack happy to look at her that way, until he saw behind her what was surely the ugliest baby in the universe.
The creature gagged at Jack as it tried to suck milk from a salt shaker. Jack frowned, sad that somebody had tricked that family into taking home a tortured space monkey instead of a human baby.
He glared to make it stop staring, but it waved, showering salt all around. Its hair was a swath of black rat fur and it leered at Jack like a gargoyle. Jack swiped at it to shoo it away, but the horrible creature imitated him and flung the salt shaker, which conked the head of an elderly lady.
“Oh!!” she cried.
Jack tried to look away, but there was Space Monkey screaming and pointing at him. Jack snarled at it.
“This is lovely,” said Mom. She turned to Jack. “What do—”
“Knock it off!” Jack hissed at Space Monkey, right behind Mom.
Dad frowned. “What did you say to her?”
Space Monkey shrieked.
“Shut up!” Jack said.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
The sonic blast from Space Monkey spiked Jack's brain. It had a similar effect on a passing waitress, who recoiled and dumped her tray, heavily laden with whip-creamed waffles and omelets, on Dad.
The entire restaurant went still.
“Told ya, Dad,” Jack said.
“Lovely,” said Mom, taking a raspberry from Dad’s arm. “And we’ve only been here five minutes.”
Thomas Sullivan (tmpsull@gmail.com)
This is excerpted from my memoir of teaching driver education (titled Life In The Slow Lane)
* * * *
I'm driving with two students when I see one of our cars on the road. I'm not sure who is instructing, but it's probably Thomas. I abandon my route for the moment and have my student turn each time Thomas does.
Five minutes into this tailing, my driver asks, "Are we following that car?"
"Yup," I say, "it's one of ours. You two want to have some fun?"
"Sure," the driver says.
Her sister in the back keeps quiet. Thomas's car turns left and we follow, maintaining our distance.
"Now," I say as we stalk our prey, "you guys know how much you hate getting honked at, right?"
My driver glances over and says, "Definitely."
"Okay, this is a learning exercise," I say. "We're going to practice what not to do by doing it. Should we ever honk at someone just because we're in a hurry?"
"No," the girls respond in unison.
Thomas's car turns right after halting at an intersection. Focused on her slow pursuit, my driver does a California stop, rolling past the stop sign. She does check for cars, so it's safely illegal and I let it slide. We've got bigger fish to fry here.
"What do we do when someone honks at us?" I ask.
The girl in the back doesn't say anything, but her sister up front says, "Ignore them and do what's safe."
I'm impressed and tell her so. Thomas's car stops at a four-way intersection and we slink up behind it. I glance at the girl driving.
"Okay, honk. But do it gently."
I forget that she's probably never used a horn before. She punches the steering wheel and it blares out a sharp, extended honk. The girls erupt in laughter and I see a face pop into the side mirror. It's Thomas all right, but I doubt he recognizes us. Our car lacks the required student driver marking on the front, so we probably appear to be just another impatient jerk. A moment later Thomas's car turns right and we turn left. We all agree that his driver handled the situation perfectly.
Contest Entry: 349 words
Nothing beats a weekend in Solvang with my two best friends boutique shopping and WINE TASTING.
Except the four-hour drive home when we are all broke and hung-over.
I have known Lisa and Cher for over thirty years. As teens, we had similar music tastes; as adults, we have definitely struck out on our own. It was my turn to drive, so I created a playlist with songs from our youth that all of us could enjoy.
The Bee Gees’ hit, "You Should Be Dancing," ushered in a gorgeous view of the ocean. Instead of commenting on the scenery, Cher said, “It sounds to me like he’s saying, ‘Do you do it in your butt?’”
Blinking, I realized that she referred to the linefrom the song, "What are you doing in the back, ahhh?".
As we curved around bend, the ocean disappeared from my line of sight until I could straighten out. I turned to recapture the majestic view of blue water . . .
“Do you do it in your butt?”
. . . but instead I see the Bee Gees wearing sliver, skin-tight body suits, bending over as tall, seemingly naked men pump them from behind blinds me. A disco balling spins above their heads.
After that, every time they sang the chorus, all I could do was guffaw like a 16-year-old stoner.
But, Cher was not finished ruining my playlist.
During TLC's song, "Silly Ho" she asked, "Did she just say 'I am not a chicken head'?"
Yes, Cher. R&B artists often use farm animals as metaphors.
“No,” I said. Between giggles I sputtered out, “She is saying, ‘I ain’t–no– chick you can– hit.’”
From the backseat, Lisa said, “But, do you do it in your butt?”
“Daily,” I reply, glancing in the review mirror and winking.
“Only to prove that she’s not a chicken head,” Cher added.
The song, "She's Crafty" by the Beastie Boys thumps from the speakers.
“It sounds like he’s saying, 'She's crapping'."
I can't wait to get a hold of Cher's playlist. Although, not sure what more I can do to, "They all gather 'round my teepee [ . . . ]to catch a peek at me [in] my buffalo briefs."
Okay, I'm taking the plunge, too. Mine's 342 words.
Annie reverently pulled out the dead peanut butter and jelly sandwich and handed it to Jason. The center was smushed flat. Purple jelly spots seeped through the now gray bread.
"The two-liter of soda fell on it," Annie explained.
Since they had started the cemetery five years ago—after a tragic incident involving a fanny pack, an orange, rock jumping and several falls—they had scrupulously followed the SPB&J (Smushed Peanut Butter and Jelly) Burial Rules. And rule #1 was clear: Thou shalt bury all smushed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which are unfit to eat, in the secret cemetery.
"How old is it?" Jason asked
"Three days. I had to save it from the trash when my mom wasn't looking."
Jason performed the inspection, turning the sandwich frontwards, backwards then rotating it to check the sides. "I hereby pronounce this sandwich mold free and worthy of burial."
Thanks to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich Jason found squished at the back of his desk last year, they'd added rule #7: Thou shalt not bury any sandwich with any non-peanut butter and jelly growths in the cemetery.
Some things were just too gross.
With her mom's gardening spade, Annie dug a sandwich-sized hole then winked solemnly at Jason. Rule #3: Thou shalt not speak during the ceremony, except the official sermon.
Jason extracted the sandwich from the baggie and held it up with outstretched arms. He squinched up his face and looked away.
"Time out," Annie said. Rule #6: If an emergency shall arise, thou shalt call a time out to allow speaking. "Don't be such a drama king. I haven't missed in ages."
"You missed last time it was your turn. And the time before that."
"And that was ages ago. Time in."
Jason raised his eyebrows, but held still. Annie formed a wad of saliva in her mouth then spit on the sandwich with all her might. Rule #4: Thou shalt spit on the sandwich to give it a taste of what it would have experienced if tragedy hadn't struck.
Here are 348 words from "Gone, Kitty, Gone: A Brock Rockster Mystery", starring everyone's favorite mustachioed detective prodigy.
We followed the clown into the house and down the most elaborate and terribly decorated hall I’d ever seen. Cat vomit on the walls would have been an improvement compared to the random combinations of sky blue, magenta, and lime green that jumped from their painted frames.
Statues of creatures that appeared to be part human, part porcupine, and part dragon stood in random places, turning the walk down the hall into a dizzying maze. The ceiling was covered with a large, complex portrait, but of whom I couldn’t begin to guess. Abraham Lincoln came to mind, but after closer examination I think it may have been a hippopotamus.
The hall was dirty, too. Food wrappers skittered across the floor in packs, like tumbleweeds in a cowboy’s backyard. The dust on the floor was so thick, the cockroaches had taken up swimming through it rather than crawling. At some points, even the piles of dirt were covered with piles of dirt.
“Madame appreciates your willingness to come so quickly, Mr. Rockster,” the clown said as he walked beside me. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with the relationship between Madame and Ms. Poofytail –”
I held my hand up and he stopped talking.
“I work only for the world’s finest celebrities, and make it my duty to fully invest myself in every detail of their lives, large or small. So yes, I know just what is at stake.”
The reporter spoke up. “Who is Ms. Poofytail?”
I smirked at her funny joke, and then realized she wasn’t kidding.
“You’re serious?” I said. She nodded, and poised to take down notes. I was momentarily unsure how to begin. What kind of person didn’t know who Ms. Poofytail was?
I gave it my best shot. “Ms. Poofytail is the most famous cat in the world, and I’m here because she has been stolen.”
The reporter wrote something down in her pad. “Stolen? You mean she was kidnapped?”
“Catnapped, to be exact,” I said. “The crime was almost certainly the work of a cat burglar.”
Cole had a learning disability. At least that’s what my dad said whenever anyone remarked on how dumb our dog was. But my friend Tyler and I were going to prove Dad wrong.
Cole had already mastered “Sit.” Our method had been simple: holding a treat, I said, “Sit, sit, sit,” while Tyler pushed on Cole’s hind end. When Cole didn’t seem to get the point of the exercise, I started saying, “Shit, shit, shit,” just to see what he’d do. But then Mom came in and said Tyler had to go home, I had to go to my room, and shame on me.
Two days and three boxes of treats later, Cole got “Sit.” Now we were ready for “Shake.” We set up operations in the kitchen. I said, “Shake.” Tyler picked up Cole’s paw and shook it. I gave Cole a treat. We did this fifty times. Then came the moment of truth. Tyler stepped away. I said, “Shake.” Cole tilted his head to one side. He opened his mouth. He drooled. He did not lift his paw. Tyler stepped forward, hand extended. Cole tilted his head the other way and drooled some more. Tyler assisted him. I gave Cole a treat. We took a break.
I said, “We’re not giving up, Tyler.”
“No, no,” he said. Tyler was my best friend.
We returned to the lesson. Then Tyler started to laugh. I was a little cranky, what with the lack of progress and all. I said, “What the hell?” forgetting Mom might be somewhere nearby. Tyler spluttered, “Say ‘Shake’ again!”
I realized then our other dog, Klondike, was behind me. I said, “Shake.” Cole added to the puddle on the floor while Klondike raised his paw, doing his darnedest to shake. You knew what he was thinking: “Cole, if you were any dumber, they’d make boxes out of you.”
So that was that. I was forever to be known as the kid with the dumb dog. The only question was whether it was worth starting a fight when the kids on the block called Cole a retard.
Wild beasts of the desert shall lie there;
and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures;
and owls shall dwell there,
and satyrs shall dance there.
And the wild beasts of the islands shall cry in their
desolate houses,
and dragons in their pleasant palaces:
and her time is near to come, and her days shall not be prolonged.
Isaiah 13: 19-22
I don’t like the sound of that one bit, Chylus.
What?
The bit with the dragons and all.
Why do there have to be owls, Chylus? We shrews don’t like owls, much.
I wish you’d all stop whining. There’s a human in this after all and he’s the one who ends up-
Chylus, stop! You can’t tell them everything, not on the first page. The story hasn’t even started yet!
Well, they’re going to figure it out anyway. . .
I just don’t understand. What’s Isaiah doing in a children’s book?
Is that the name of the dragon?
No, the owl. You know they eat shrews.
They’re not the only ones who do.
There goes Chylus showing off again. He’ll ruin to book for everyone.
Shut up!
Is it true fire comes out of dragons’ noses?
Maybe.
I once told a joke to an owl and when he laughed a shrew came out of his nose.
I think I’m going to be sick.
You all can make jokes about owls! Filthy Holstein pheasants!
Shaddup, Pops, or Chylus here. . .
I told you to knock it off or you’re going to spoil the story!
I don’t take advice from earth-diggers like you, Runt!
If I were you I’d take less advice and more frequent baths!
That was nice.
Buuurp.
Who was that?
Probably Chylus. Better make a headcount.
Isn’t anyone going to explain what’s going on?
Well, somebody burped and we’re short two shrews here.
Quick! Tell Chylus a joke!
What are you talking about? His nose isn’t big enough.
Not that. I mean about this Isaiah thing. . .
That was a crisis ago, Mabel. Mabel? Mabel!
Anyone seen Mabel?
Burrrp.
Whew. Wet shrew.
Carter picked me up for our missions of revenge at 10:15. Colbert was on at 11 and I had a calc quiz first period the next day, so I was kinda banking on this being a relatively expedited revenge quest. We did not have months and years to plan and simmer. We had 45 minutes, round trip. Teen revenge is often served hot due to curfews and calc quizzes.
“Sup, Master Brendan,” Carter said.
He said a lot of stupid things while we were questing.
“Sup, douche-rocket,” I said back. I always tried to even him out, but it was an uphill battle.
“Did you get everything?”
I lifted by green army duffel slightly and nodded. Inside was a roll of duck tape, a pack of salami, seven powerfully offensive porn magazines, paper machete I’d stolen from the 1st graders’ art-room, and a Batman action figure. I always scavenged supplies because strangers trusted me intrinsically and were unlikely to realize I was in the process of stealing something from them. A well-intentioned smile and casual demeanor is the best cover for petty crimes.
I leafed through the porno mags while Carter drove. For all his antics, he drove like an eighty-year old who wasn’t sure how he’d ended up behind the wheel, so it look a while to reach Principle Gilmore’s car.
“Dude drives a piece of crap for a rich guy,” Carter said.
“It’s a Willys CJ. It’s historic.”
“It’s stupid. Grab the porn and everything.”
It took half an hour to finish. Five minutes in it was quickly evident the salami was superfluous, so we munched on it as we plastered the porn onto the outer surface of the Willys CJ. It was $60 Hungarian-style salami that had no business with vandalism, anyway. I only nabbed it because I couldn’t find the Kraft packs at the deli.
When it was done we stepped back to admire the job.
“That is a whole lot of genitalia,” Carter said.
I tore off the CJ hood ornament and replaced it with the Batman figure.
“That’s justice.”
A fresh afternoon rain brought me out of my stuffy apartment to sit on the front stoop and enjoy the Baltimore twilight. A clash of tinny club music, squealing tires and a car door slamming broke my reverie.
“Yo yo, Doc T-Bone! I see you got the fever relievah. What be the toll on my jelly roll?” he said, snatching the baggie from me.
“What?”
“Hometown, do not be gamin’ on this playah. My boy there is strapped. I said how much dough-ray-me so I can fa-so-la-tee-GO?”
“What?”
“Are you feeling me?” he said, tugging on the bill of his sideways Ravens cap.
When I didn’t answer he dropped two twenties and they peeled out.
“Toll on my jelly roll? What the hell was that? And your name is Walter, not T-Bone,” said my roommate hanging out the first floor window.
“Dunno, HBO must be re-rerunning ‘The Wire’,” I said.
“Hey, check out what came in the mail today,” he said, showing me a package.
“Is that the new iPad2?”
“64 gig and 3G.”
“Man, I’m still on DSL. At least I have a 3.5 GHz clock. Hey, let’s go grab some dinner. Courtesy of my jelly roll,” I said, waving the twenties.
“Be right down. By the way, what was in that baggie Vanilla Ice grabbed from you?”
“Tylenol and Tums.”
“So, you actually did have fever reliever.”
“You can be such a Charles Dickens sometimes,” I said, pocketing the cash.
A scene from Don't Mess with Mick.
——
Michael walked into the kitchen.
“The sweats aren’t going to cut it,” he said, all thoughts of seducing her vanishing from his mind. She would never find him hot in this get up. He looked like farmer Joe. Well, he would if he had a straw hat and a corncob pipe. “And look at these jeans.”
Her eyebrows raised and her eyes widened as they traced his frame. He knew the tight jeans left nothing to the imagination, and if she kept gnawing on her lower lip like that…well, hell.
“I look like I’m waiting for the flood.”
“What?”
“The jeans are two inches too short.”
She looked down at his feet and laughed. “Yeah, and the dress shoes…now that’s a good look. But hey, the tee shirt fits you okay, and I like the red and green checked flannel shirt.” She gave him a thumbs-up. “Good choice there.”
He ran a hand over the faded green tee shirt that stated in white letters that birdwatchers were awake at sparrow fart. He’d tried to cover that with the flannel shirt. Kill me now.
“Anyway, nobody will see us,” Rachel said, opening the cupboard and grabbing a couple of coffee mugs. “We’ll be on the boat. It’s tied up out back. Grandpa has his own jetty.”
“The sea is right behind us?”
“Duh. For a perceptive undercover agent you’re lacking in directional skills.” She poured a mug of coffee, and then slid it toward him. “There’s powdered creamer—”
“Thanks. I’ll take it black,” he said, with an exaggerated shudder, and then shuddered again when he tasted the potent brew.
“Yeah, me too. I hate that powdered stuff.”
He walked to the small window set above the cracked enamel sink, and pulled aside the faded yellow curtain. The huge expanse of the Salton Sea gleamed in the sun. And tied to a small jetty bobbed an old motor boat named Henry’s Woman. It was a long time since he’d been in a boat, or with a woman, and this one looked like it had weathered one too many storms.
The man was not a woman. He had long hair, long legs, and a slim figure that any woman would envy (though he was flat-chested).
On the dark sidewalk, I momentarily thought that my first armed robbery was going to be against a woman, and I was comfortable with that. I was used to disappointing women. It was only after I told the lady to hand me her wallet that I realized that she must have a penis hidden somewhere.
“Whoa!” the guy said, putting his hands up. He dropped a metal object on the ground.
“What was that?” I pointed my gun at his decidedly masculine face.
“Hand exerciser.”
“Why are you carrying a hand exerciser?”
“I need a stronger handshake.” This seemed entirely plausible.
“Well, give me your wallet.”
“I have a wallet, but I keep my money in my sock.”
I sighed. He was an idiot. “Why would you tell me that?”
“I'm nervous.”
“I just want your money. Get it out of your sock.”
He sighed, and proceeded to remove his left shoe and sock. The sock smelled like chicken soup and CornNuts, which are good smells only when they are not coming from a sock. He poured out less than a dollar in change.
I put the gun away. “Forget it. Have a good night.”
He was crestfallen. “I'm sorry. I just brought enough for the hand exerciser”
“Just go. I don't want your money.”
“Then why are you robbing me?”
“I'm not. Go home.”
“I was going to my aunt's house.”
“Then go there.”
“I don't know where she lives.”
I resisted asking more questions. “Then go anywhere you want.”
“I'd like to go to MacDonalds…” He was hinting at something, and it only took me a moment to realize what. I gave him a five dollar bill, and sent him on his way.
Dang. I searched and searched, but although my novel has plenty of funny moments, I couldn't find any condensed into one 350-word scene.
Next time, Bransford! Next time!
“Taste this,” he said. He’s holding up a spoonful of something gooey and brown. Or is it green, no, brown, definitely brown.
“I don’t want to taste it.”
Why is he asking me to taste anything? He knows I hate new things, especially new food. He should remember last summer when we went to Paris for our first big travel experience together. I wasn’t too sure our relationship was going to work out when he came up that that hair-brain idea. We live in a perfectly nice city, why would we need to go that far away to have a good time? I went because he was trying to make it work between us.
But snails? Really? I tried French food. Croissants are French, baguettes are too. He was disappointed when I wouldn’t try lots of new things and furious when I wouldn’t kiss him after he ate the snails. You can call them escargot, but if the slimy creatures pass over your lips, I’m not picking up what they leave behind.
The girls at work think he’s amazing with his fancy foreign car and all those exotic restaurants he books. I wonder if he is losing interest.
Friday night he picked me up for work and said, “I’ve been busy and didn’t get a booking for tonight. Anywhere you’d like to go?”
“I could kill for a hamburger,” I said.
The look on his face! He glanced over at my workmate, Rhonda. She looked away.
I’m know I need to put in a bit of effort so I’ll try that stuff. I open my mouth. He carefully pours some on my tongue.
“Gross. Yuck,” I yell, as a drop of brown spittle hits the floor.
“That bad? I thought so,” he says. He’s smirking.
I step backwards.
“I’ve booked for two at the Ethiopian place,” he says. As I stumble towards the door, he adds, “I know you won’t be interested in going.”
On a table by his cell phone, there’s piece of paper with a telephone number I’m sure I recognize.
Later I look up the number. Ronda!
Anonymous poster of the scene of the chic who won't eat anything new is me…Barbara Mayo-Neville! sorry ;0
One night, Rosie Bartlett was being horrible to her bum – yelling all kinds of horrible things at it, ‘I hate you! You’re always in the way!’
She was trying on her old jeans, but the darn things wouldn’t stretch around her waist.
So Rosie kept yelling, ‘I hate you! You’re the worst bum ever!’
Rosie’s bum felt really sad. So as Rosie slept that night, her bum ran away.
When Rosie woke the next morning without a bum, she felt wonderful. She slid out of bed, put on her favourite jeans, tied them with a belt and ran downstairs shouting, ‘Mum! Mum! I don’t have a bum!’
‘What?’ said Mum.
‘My bum ran away. Isn’t that the best news?’
‘Rosie, you look ridiculous!’ said Mum. ‘You need a bum. Everyone needs a bum!’
‘Okay then,’ said Rosie, ‘I’ll buy a new one, a small one, a teeny-tiny one.’
And she ran down the street as fast as she could.
Rosie stopped outside Bums R Us! and read the huge sign on the window:
All Bums At Rock Bottom Prices.
Inside, Rosie tried on a Tiny Heinie. Unfortunately, it was too tiny to be Rosie’s heinie. She tried on a Cutie Patooti but it was too small for her booty, and the Comfy Caboose kept coming loose. She tried on sixteen bums but nothing fit. Total Bummer!
It’s no use, thought Rosie. I’ll never find a bum that fits!
‘Don’t despair, dear,’ said Miss Buttocks, the sales lady. ‘I think I have just the bum you’re looking for out the back.’
She returned with the fanciest bum Rosie had ever seen – the Dainty Derriere.
‘It’s brand new, just in from Paris – the capital of fashionable bums,’ said Miss Buttocks.
‘Wow!’ said Rosie, who didn’t hold much hope of fitting into the fancy French bum, but she tried it on.
It was a little tight around her waist, but it stayed on. It actually stayed on. And, best of all, Rosie still fit into her jeans.
‘I’ll take it!’ said Rosie excitedly. ‘Don’t bother to wrap it up, I’ll wear it home.’
Reuben was trying hard to forget his first and last night as a waiter at an Italian restaurant, tripping over the leg of a chair with his arms full of plates of pasta. An elderly customer found her lap full of tortellini and her husband garnished with slivers of parmesan cheese. The boss sacked him on the spot, threatening to deduct their dry-cleaning bills from his non-existent wages.
The next job was an improvement – he lasted two days as a brickie’s labourer. On the first day he left the cement in the cement mixer while he went to lunch. When he turned it on afterwards the mixer jumped into the air and crashed to the ground, still grinding, like a huge insect stranded on its back. The cement inside it was rock hard.
His fate was sealed on the second day when, as he trudged through the site with a plank of wood on his shoulder, someone called, ‘Look out, Littledick!’ As he turned around, the plank of wood gave the foreman, passing by at that moment, a resounding whack on the side of the head. That afternoon he was given two days’ pay and fired; he never found out who’d called out the warning.
‘I’m trying to be positive,’ he said. His heart swelled as he gazed at Lucy’s perfectly sculpted neck, the curve of her jaw and her pale chest, lightly dusted with freckles. She wore a jade blouse that matched her eyes. He felt another part of his body swelling and he wrenched his eyes away from her breasts. Get a grip, this is your parole officer, for God’s sake.
‘But it’s difficult when selling is the only thing I’m good at and I’m not allowed to do it.’
This was only partly true. Fraud was the only thing he was good at, the only business he’d ever been in. And that involved selling yourself – if you could do that, you could sell anything. But now he had to harness his powers for good, not evil.
350 words exactly! Here goes:
Being tipsy and lying face down on my living room floor while ‘90s music blares on the satellite television, is not exactly my idea of a good Friday night. I hadn’t intended to spend my night that way but it just sort of happened. Just like it always sort of happens, every Friday night. OK, so maybe I do this often. But who’s to say that most girls don’t do this too?
I felt my cat’s course tongue on my earlobe.
“Yuck, William!” I rolled over to pet him, inducing purrs and him rubbing his whiskers against my face.
“Stop,” I laughed and he purred some more.
That’s William. The only other male I trust. He was actually sort of a second-hand cat from my sister who has a fondness for British royalty. When she moved to London, after meeting her husband-to-be over an Internet dating site that connects American women to British men, she left both her cats, William and Harry, in the loving care of me, Rosaline A Dresden.
Most call me Rose, close people call me Rose-A knowing the A stands for absolutely nothing, thanks to my parents. The two could agree on only two things in their brief marriage: Rosaline would be my first name and my middle name would start with an A. They wanted my initials to be RAD. Apparently, they argued about what the A would stand for and ultimately they’d decided to just leave it as A. Yes, you heard me correctly, my middle name is A.
When confronting my mother, when I was old enough to understand, she told me the A stood for anything I wanted it to stand for. “The possibilities are endless,” she said looking up from her dinner plate with a bit of corn stuck in her front tooth.
I rolled my eyes.
“What? It’s not like it’s a Scrabble game where you have to use at least two letters.”
“No, Mom, but it is my name.”
“What’s in A name any way,” she giggled as though she enjoyed branding me for life.
I stand with eyes closed and allow the locker room shower to message my shoulders. It’s 6:30AM on a Friday, and I feel strong and confident. I finished my swim just moments ago, and the wonder of positivity reverberates untamed throughout my body. I let a smile stretch for a moment before turning off the warmth and flip-flopping toward my towel.
I’m startled from my bliss by the sudden appearance of another early gym member. I pardon myself, and I notice him double-take.
“Mr. Horner!,” The excited, half-naked man said.
I scanned his face over in an instant and glanced over his bare chest. I couldn’t place the gentleman.
The toweled fellow noticed my confusion, smiled and said, “Jennifer and Jason Green’s dad. From Dickson High School”
It took a moment for the names to trigger a memory, but then the faces came to me–students I taught a couple years back.
“Oh, yes. How are you?” I asked, wondering if I should switch my bar of soap to the left hand so that I could shake politely. Instead, I used the bar of soap as a sort of visual shield to hide my naked manliness.
“Jenner and Jason always spoke so fondly of you.”
Did he say fondle?
“They really enjoyed your history classes. Jason is even considering studying history in college.” He slapped me on the shoulder. The impact of flesh echoed throughout the enclosed showers like a whip.
Mr. Green exploded into a barrage of compliments. I phased out somewhere near the opening paragraph, and I smiled dumb, nodding incessantly without hearing a word. I peaked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of my towel, hanging lonely on the wall. Should I reach around him and grab it, I wondered briefly. Instead, I stood naked, dripping wet.
“I usually don’t catch people while they’re naked,” he said, slapping me again on the shoulder before entering the showers.
He left me momentarily immobilized, scarred from the unexpected engagement. My earlier strength had dripped off into the puddle below.
With head lowered, I sulked into my Friday.
He wanted a haircut, that’s all. Easy. I’d seen a boy cut a couple of times, get the buzzy thing out for the sides, use some scissors on the top, and shabam! A haircut.
“You know what you’re doing?” Luke asked.
“Obviously, why else would I offer?” I stood behind him, not mentioning that all I really wanted was to get my hands in his sexy blonde hair. I’d never been this close to his ruggedly handsome locks (complete with sideburns). I’d been coveting his hair since he moved here last year, but when someone has a psycho-over-possessive girlfriend, you know better than to touch his hair. I ran my fingers through it. Silky, but thick. Sigh. A boy should never have hair this nice. And was that Jasmine? Oh my gosh, he used Jessica’s shampoo. It smelled better on him than his twin sister, a.k.a. my best friend.
“Uh, what are you doing?” he asked.
“Oh!” I pulled my nose from his scalp. “Just trying to get a feel for the texture.”
Jessica handed me the clippers. Fake it till you make it.
“Tilt your chin down.” I ignored the gleam in Jessica’s eye. I buzzed the back of his neck, so far so good. I dumped the wad of hair next to him, making a mental note to snag some when I swept up. There was kind of this funky buzz line, but I’d fix it later. Time to do the sides, with my heart palpitating, I took his face in my hands and tilted it as slowly as I could. I had to treasure this moment. And two seconds later I was glad I did, because it probably was the last time he’d ever let me touch him again.
I zipped up the side of his head with the clippers, when I pulled back I couldn’t stifle my gasp. HOLY CRAP! I just cut off Luke Hartwell’s sideburn! Seriously. There was nothing under there; it was like a hang-over… versus a comb-over. I slid my fingers over the newly bared skin, soft as a baby’s bum.
[Decided to enter. Not a WIP, composed specifically for the competition.]
Wally knew nothing about department store retail sales but the ad said no experience necessary so he applied. Asked if he could spell, he said he'd completed eighth grade and that seemed enough. Show up at nine in the drapery and floorcovering department.
So here he was. He'd put on his best suit, which happened to be his only suit, but no one seemed to notice the pants and jacket didn't match. Mrs. Grotchnik, the department head, got him started. "See if that lady over there needs assistance."
The lady, one with a formidable build and white hair piled on top of her head was holding a long drapery rod over her shoulder and had her back to Wally. Just as he began to say, "May I help you?" she swiveled around the other way, the rod catching him just above his ear.
Down Wally went to his hands and knees. Just as he began to get up the woman turned back, didn't see him and stepped smack into his side. She began to do a front flip over Wally's back as he twisted around in an attempt to stop her but only grabbed her skirt. She was too far gone to stop and he pulled the skirt down to her knees. To free both hands to brace for the fall she threw the drapery rod away. Wally was nearly half way up and the rod caught him on the other ear. Back down he went, still holding onto the woman's skirt. As his shoulder hit the floor his bottom flew up, caught the woman's feet and flipped her completely over onto her back, causing her legs to fly upwards. The skirt, now pulled down to her feet went up too. With the garment still held tightly in his fist, Wally was jerked up and flipped face down onto the woman's substantial bosom. It'd happened so fast neither had made a sound. Wally recovered his composure, looked up from his pillowy landing spot and said, "Uh…while we're down here, may I interest the lady in a new carpet?"
Marc Turner. President of the Sigmas. Goalie of the soccer team. The Marc Turner had something for me. What was it? A formal invitation? They did have one coming up.
I thought back to yesterday’s laundry room encounter. He piled his lights in a duffle bag, cussing when he got to a towel.
“Mind if I stick this in with your things to dry?” he asked.
I took his slightly damp, once-had-touched-his-body towel and threw it in with my clothes. “Not at all,” I said.
“Thanks.”
He winked, and I melted into a happy puddle on the trembling floor.
That Marc Turner had something for me.
I slowed down as I approached his window.
“Kaylee!” he hollered. “Wait right there.”
I planted my feet and looked around. A group of cheerleaders fluffed their hair and opened their mail at a picnic table. One of them looked my way and whispered to another.
Marc popped up behind me, so close I could smell his toothpaste.
“I believe these belong to you.” He handed me a brown bag, rolled shut at the top.
“Um, thanks?” I said. “What is it?”
“Remember when you put my towel in with your stuff?” he asked. “A pair of your panties must have clung to it.”
I stared at the bag, wishing I had x-ray vision. One question plagued me, meant the difference between being a hottie and me shriveling into eternal geekdom.
Which pair?
What if it was the granny panties with the blown out elastic waistband? I imagined the Sigmas dancing in a conga line around Marc’s room with my powder-blue uglies waving like a flag from a broomstick.
Please, oh please don’t let it be those.
I took the bag from Marc’s hand. Maybe it was one of the two pairs I’d bought at Victoria’s Secret. Lord, please let them be lacy and cute.
Marc relaxed when the bag was out of his hands. “See you around,” he said.
I was too flustered to even answer.
“And Kaylee?” he added. “Nice panties!”
From my MG manuscript, "Curtis Crumb's Creature Cafeteria."
My arms start to itch. I’m probably breaking out in hives. I feel light headed and queasy. The alien guy points a barbeque tong hand at me and blasts warm air against my face. I suck in my breath and squeeze my eyes shut. He’s going to vaporize me. When I don’t combust into a million particles, I open one eye. The alien smiles, exposing his tiny, sharp cat-like teeth. “Scribboo. Glorp eep Garbij,” he says, and hands me the broken camera pieces.
I shake my head. “Great. This was a birthday present.”
Bigfoot grunts, scribbles a note on his pad of paper and hands it to me. No disrespect to Bigfoot, but the note looks like it was written by my left foot and I’m a righty. The letters are in all caps. It says, “YU BORING FUD TWO US OR B DELEATED.” I read it out loud to try to decipher what the heck it means. “You boring food to us or b deleated?” Gulp. I’m not sure if “deleated” is a typo for “deleted” or some kind of Bigfoot word for being eaten. Either way, it sounds bad. And what’s boring food? “Boring?” I repeat. “You want boring food?”
Bigfoot scrunches his eyebrows, yanks the note out of my hand, crosses something out and hands it back. He’s crossed out the O, and now it says, “YU BRING FUD TWO US OR B DELEATED.”
Holy Hot Dog on a Stick! I don’t want to be DELEATED, or even EATED. I wobble a bit on my shaky knees.
“I can bring you guys food. Just let me go home and grab it,” I say.
The alien speaks gibberish. Bigfoot takes notes holding the pencil between two of his four long fingers. I’ve really got to give him credit for figuring out how to write without a thumb. The dragon dog drops onto his back, points his paws in the air and wriggles around on the ground like he’s got a bad case of mange and fleas.
We rejoined my aunts in the living room. After a while Mom asked me to run next door and see if Dad was ready to go home.
“Come watch this, honey,” Uncle Dom greeted me. “This TV is incredible. You can see what color it is when they spit.”
I sat on the arm of Dad’s chair. “Mom wants to know if you’re ready to go.”
“Hey, Gianna, you want us to take care of that lawyer bastard for you?” Uncle Petey asked. “Didn’t want to mention it in front of the women.”
Uncle Joe rolled up a piece of newspaper and slapped it against his palm. “I’m still South Philly. We take care of our own. Name the time and place. He’ll be picking up pieces of his ass for weeks.”
“I really don’t think that’s appropriate…” I didn’t know what to say. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Why not?” Uncle Dom demanded. “He’s got it coming.”
I turned to my father for help. “Dad, say something.”
Eyes never leaving the TV, he replied, “The Westies can provide tactical support.” “Westies” was my Renzelli uncles’ nickname for my dad and his brothers, after an Irish gang in New York.
“Daddy. For God’s sake, everybody, don’t assault my ex-boyfriend. It’s over and done with.”
“If you say so, honey.” Uncle Dom looked disappointed.
Dad stood up. “Get me a cup of coffee, and we’ll go find your mother.”
“Dad, I think you should let Mom drive home.”
“Your mother doesn’t like the interstate. Anyway, I haven’t even been drinking today.”
“Wine is still alcohol.” I led him toward the door. “And if you’re seriously considering night ops with these hooligans, Mom should drive.”
“Too bad you didn’t get a cellphone picture of those two,” Dad mused, reflecting the Harrigan propensity for political blackmail. “If that Dennis thinks he’ll ever be a judge in this town, he’s got another one coming.”
“You know it,” Uncle Dom agreed.
“I can’t believe this,” I moaned.
“We’ll back off, since you asked,” Uncle Petey acquiesced. “But remember, we’re all here for you. Any time.”
Wow, these entries are awesome. Here's an exerpt from my YA contemporary "The Perfect Mess." Some background- Riley is Kara's best friend, who she's secretly crushing on.
Thanks! Lynn Lindquist
***
I’m not a materialistic person. I'm not. I don’t care if you live in a double-wide or a penthouse. I don't care if your ugly boots are counterfeit knockoffs from China or if your cell phone has more apps than Steve Jobs’. And I’ve never once cared what kind of car a guy drives.
Until now.
It’s 6:30, and Luke is walking up the driveway to pick me up. Now I know why Luke asked if I’d mind going in his mom’s car. Luke’s mom is a Pink Lady Cosmetics Consultant, and apparently a very good one, because she earned herself a Pink Lady VW Bug. And isn’t it clever how they made the car look like a “pink lady-bug?” Complete with black polka dots and metal eyelashes over the headlights. I wonder if it also comes with a bag I can wear over my head.
Luke sees me staring at his car. “Thanks for understanding about the ride. We’ll take my dad’s Hummer next time. Maybe I’ll treat you to a nice dinner to make up for this.” But the way my karma seems to operate, I’m sure it’ll end up being the nice dinner they serve at Riley and Sara’s lavish wedding.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him.
Any other time, I would probably get a kick out of this. But all I can think about is how much I want to punch Sara. It should be me in that car. That’s my friend foursome, not hers.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve learned everything I need to dominate if Jeopardy has a category about Luke’s ex-girlfriend Chelsea. By the time we get on the tollway, I’m in a boredom trance. I only snap out of it when a van veers dangerously close to my door/wing. The driver is trying to take a picture of the Pink Lady-bug on his cell phone. I feel like the Grand Marshal in the front car of the Rose Bowl parade. All we need are some Shriner’s hats and a giant, helium-filled Elmo floating above us.
From my WIP, "Ellie All Ears Investigates":
Every day after school and before dinner, Ellie All Ears slid the mattress off of her bed, propped it on its long side, and affixed to it a cardboard sign that read “K-ZOO News.”
At 5 p.m. sharp, Ellie stood behind her makeshift news desk and donned her horn-rimmed glasses. She had seen a movie once where an elephant wearing shiny blue tights and a red cape magically transformed into a reporter, just by putting on glasses. If only it were that simple, Ellie thought. Glasses are helpful, but glasses alone are not enough. A truly great reporter also needs theme music. She pressed the orange “Play” button on her Casio mini-keyboard. A drumroll of dignity! A trumpet-blare of truth! And then, at last, the voiceover:
LIVE from La Menagerie Semi-Luxury Apartments, THIS is K-ZOO News with Ellie All Ears.
“Good eeeevening,” Ellie said.
“Our top story tonight: New developments in my struggle for ultimate brown-bag-lunch control. This morning, mother refused to let me pack a yellow American cheese sandwich for the tenth day in a row, citing health concerns. This afternoon, I walked in on her eating yellow American cheese, slice by slice, straight out of the refrigerator. Join me for an update on Cheesegate 2011 tonight after dinner.
Thanks to a K-ZOO investigation, the source of that smell in the back of Mrs. Spottleson’s fourth grade classroom has been identified as Flagstaff Giraffe’s lucky neck sock. Mr. Giraffe attributed his success in the latest school basketball tournament to the sock, which remains unwashed. Mrs. Spottleson removed the offending item. Many held their noses. No one was hurt.
Shocking national news tonight: K-ZOO has learned that Kansas City is not the capital of Kansas. Who is to blame for this gross oversight? Stay tuned for an investigative report.
Until next time, I’m Ellie, and I’m All Ears.”
After discovering his moldy muffin at breakfast, Brick had walked out at lunch to a flat tire. This meant he would spend his lunch hour in the smoky break-room of the grocery store he worked at listening to his black-lunged coworkers drone on about their white trash families.
A bagger, Jim, entered the break room and sat down on a stack of upturned milk crates. Jim had worked at the store since retiring from his lifelong job 15,000 years ago.
“Howdy there, Brick.”
“Hi, Jim.”
Some time passed without words. A fly landed near Brick's wrist. He tried smashing it with his hand to no avail.
“Sorry. I forgot to warn you,” Jim said. “I’m an artist. I draw flies.”
Brick gave a sympathy laugh and kept eating. He had one more piece of the deli's dust-dry chicken left.
“This fried chicken is terrible,” he said more to himself than to Jim.
“You heard the one about Colonel Sanders and the Pope?” Jim asked.
Brick shook his head, and Jim wagged his tail in excitement.
“Well, Colonel Sanders was looking for new marketing. He had an idea and called the Pope.”
Brick had abandoned the lamp-heated chicken.
“He said, ‘Pope, I'm gonna donate $100 million to the Catholic Church.’ Pope said, ‘Great! I’ll send someone your way to collect it.’ Colonel Sanders said, ‘Well, there’s a catch.’
By this time, Brick saw no chance of avoiding the joke, so he settled in and took it like a man.
“You know that part in the Lord’s Prayer that says give us this day our daily bread? Well, I want it changed to 'our daily chicken!’ Pope said, ‘I don’t think we can do that.’ ‘Why not?’ the Colonel asked. Pope said, ‘Because I think we’re still under contract with Wonder Bread!”
Oh, Jim. Where does he get this crap, Brick thought.
“Jim, where do you get this crap?”
“I dunno. I heard that one back when I was still drivin’ a truck. Back then I could get to California on about $500 worth of diesel…
Brick nodded many, many times.
From The Adventures of King Bryant, Sekrit Genius (WIP)
"Your majesty, I am flattered but…I'm not interested," Jayna said. She removed her long fingered hand from Bryant's and walked back towards the barracks.
There goes my best chance at Garum, Bryant thought to himself. Most of the women here were unappealing at best, and the camp followers were unfit for a squire, let alone for a king. It was so unfair. Bryant wondered why she wasn't interested. After all, he was impossibly handsome and charming, and a king, too. There was no reason for her to reject him.
As Bryant walked back to his tent, he considered why she'd said no. He supposed it was possible that Jayna was in love with someone else. But he'd never seen her with anyone, so that seemed unlikely. Another thought was that she'd taken vows as a nun. But she didn't seem like the religious sort, so Bryant brushed that thought aside. At last he was forced to accept the inevitable – Jayna wasn't interested in men. It seemed quite probable, considering that he'd never seen her close to any men who were not part of the army.
But if she did prefer women, what sort of women did she like? Bryant settled on his bed and considered the matter thoroughly. Probably a strong, physical woman like Jayna would prefer her absolute opposite. Likely someone delicate and intellectual and golden blonde. Someone like his wife, Maura.
Bryant leaned back on his coverlet and considered how this would play out. Jayna would return early to the capitol and find a very lonely Maura waiting for her. Of course Maura loved him best, but surely she had needs, too. Needs that only her most loyal knight could fill?
That seemed plausible. Jayna would find Maura crying on their bed, so sad that her husband wasn't here to pleasure her. Jayna would suggest another solution. Maura would protest, of course, for she loved Bryant and was entirely loyal to him. But a whirlwind of passion would overtake her, and before long she'd be naked in Jayna's arms. And there would be breasts. Lots of breasts.
Excerpt From Bumble, an unpublished middle grade/ YA manuscript:
Ashe woke early Thursday morning with a terrible taste in his mouth, only to discover it was still dark. Turning on his side with difficulty, he searched for the bedside clock, finding only more darkness.
What the heck? Dang.
He was buried under the blanket. Flopping and struggling with the fabric that felt heavy for some reason, Ashe worked his way toward the edge of the bed—and then dropped out of it. Well, plopped out of it might be a better term. The word aptly described the sound he'd made after falling out of bed. Ashe looked around, blinking in astonishment. Everything was huge. Really huge. And he could see popcorn and cookie crumbs on the carpet beneath his nightstand.
What is going on?
Ashe crawled toward the nightstand in question. The space between the wooden legs, normally a spare two inches off the floor, now resembled a massive cave entrance. Ashe fumbled his way toward that entrance. What was the matter with him? Was he dreaming? This might be the strangest nightmare he'd ever had, except he could feel the carpet fibers beneath his—wait.
Those aren't hands.
Forcing himself to remain as calm as possible, Ashe flopped and tumbled toward his dresser. A mirror was there and he'd get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible. Provided he could climb up the dresser, which now resembled a forbidding mountain of polished wood, that is. Hooking a tiny claw into the crack between the side of a lower drawer and the dresser, Ashe heaved himself up. Then, hooking the opposite claw in a higher position within the same crack, he heaved again. With much slipping and scrabbling, Ashe eventually made his way to the top of the dresser.
Panting as he reached the top, Ashe navigated around the brush, comb, deodorant and pile of books that now dwarfed him. Hooking a claw into the bottom frame of the mirror, Ashe cautiously lifted himself up.
Dude, you're screwed, Ashe thought as he examined his reflection. A tiny, not yet fully-grown bumblebee bat frowned back.
I’m meeting Jane at her parents’ beach house and I’m supposed to pick up her brother at the Immortals Conference in Stonehead, Connecticut on the way. I get there early and weave through elves and wizards in the hallways, then spot Elliot exiting the men’s room, pale and sweating.
“Chris!” he gasps. “I’m in trouble!” He says he just puked up his lunch of Teriyaki meatballs, and breakfast may be next. He’s moderating a panel in five minutes! Looking miserable, Elliot hands me an index card and pulls me toward the dais, then staggers back toward the bathroom.
“ZEN CHARACTERISTICS OF THE IMMORTAL MIND” is written in caps on the card, but the questions below are illegible scribbles. My stomach flutters – I’ll have to wing it. I mount the dais and nervously take my chair.
To my right sit Gandalf the Grey and Superman’s father, Jor-El. To my left, Yoda and… who? A cribsheet on the table says it’s Master Po from the TV series Kung Fu.
I smile at the immortal audience, introduce the panel, and ad-lib an opening question: “In a few words, could you summarize your Zen philosophy?”
“My son,” says Jor-El, channeling Brando. “All pain is an illusion. Except Kryptonite pain.”
In the audience, Dumbledore nods knowingly. I turn to Yoda, who looks like Danny Devito with green rubber flesh.
“Mindfulness is Zen?” he says. “Not when FULL is the mind! Empty must it be to see what mind obscures! Blind are you otherwise!”
Master Po’s blind, bald head snaps toward Yoda.
“You have eyes,” he says in a thick Bronx accent, “but you cannot see da grasshoppuh at yuh feet! I see da grasshoppuh wid no eyes. Den who is blind?”
“Pebble from your hand take?” sneers Yoda. “Bigger pebble have I!”
“E-QUA-NIMITY!” cries Gandalf, thumping the floor with his staff and startling Po, who loses one of his white contact lenses. Po’s uncovered eye spots the “Red Sox 45” tattoo on Yoda’s forearm.
“Pedro!” he hisses, rising from his seat as the audience murmurs apprehensively.
“Zimmer Don!” Yoda replies, reaching for his light saber.
My daughter’s voice woke me from a drunken slumber.
“Where are the presents?” she said.
My head was pounding, and I had no idea what time it was.
“Get back to bed,” was all I could manage to grumble before she started to cry.
I kept my eyes closed and did my best to ignore her. But it was Christmas morning, and she wasn’t going away.
“What’s going on?” I heard my wife call out as she came down the hall.
“Oh, God. Not her, too,” I thought to myself.
“The Christmas tree fell on top of Daddy,” Sarah said. “And there’s no presents.”
Their voices made my head feel like it was under assault. I mustered the strength to roll slightly further under the tree.
Images from the night before began playing in my mind. I remembered how happy everyone had been as we decorated the Christmas tree and sang carols. Eggnog had been flowing, and I remembered that at one point I had hugged my mother in law and told her how much I loved her.
But that was before I made the switch to red wine.
“I’m never drinking again,” I promised myself.
My lips felt sticky and there was a bitter taste, like pine, in my mouth. It was then I realized the glass of water I thought I had drunk at some point in the middle of the night must have actually been water from the tree stand.
“Why didn’t Santa come?” my daughter whined.
It was too much to take.
“Why?" I said. "Because he’s pretend. "There’s no such thing as Santa Claus.”
“That’s the last straw,” my mother in law say.
“Oh, please,” I said, while still keeping my back turned to them. “Come on, Sarah. You’re in the second grade. Please don’t be the last kid in your class to figure it out. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
That’s when my mother in law gave me a sharp kick to the kidneys. Later that night she would try to blame it on my wife, but I knew it was her.
This is a scene from a short story (in which a father explains to his children how he fell in love with their mother):
Vomit falling five storeys is a spectacular sight, but not a pleasant one when you are standing directly beneath the window from whence it came.
The sleeves of my suit took the brunt of the attack, but there was plenty to go around. I looked up to find a pale face looking out of a window. ‘Gosh! I’m so sorry!’ it said. I scowled. ‘Would you like to come up and get clean?’ I grunted assent, and stumped over to the door, while a piece of carrot slid slowly down my nose.
The door of flat 10a opened to reveal the face, now accompanied by a body in a dressing gown. ‘I really am sorry,’ the woman repeated as she led me to her bathroom.
‘So, you do have a toilet then,’ I said, ‘and a sink. Wouldn’t one of these have been a more appropriate receptacle? Or did the window seem more exciting?’ A blush appeared through her pallor.
‘It was an accident. I was just getting some air, and then suddenly… you know how it is when you have flu.’
On inspection, I discovered that only my boxers and socks had escaped the splatter. I handed shirt, trousers, jacket and tie around the half closed door before stepping into the shower. ‘How quickly does your machine work? It’s my first day at a new job,’ I called, and the woman promised to use the fastest cycle.
Ten minutes later I found the woman in her kitchen, staring down at the large pool of grey water seeping out from under her washing machine. ‘I think something might have gone wrong,’ she said. ‘But this is ok. I hand washed it.’ She held out my now clean, but very soggy tie.
I left her apartment wearing tracksuit bottoms and a jersey. Both were far too small for me, and displayed large portions of my hairy arms and legs. I left knowing that I would have to return and see the awful woman again, since my clothes were stuck in her washing machine. I left without even knowing her name.
“Have no fear, little girl! Herbie is here!” he said flying down to where the girl was sitting.
“But… my Miss Kitty is stuck in that tree!
Herbie looked up. The tree was 30 feet tall. A small gray and black kitten was sitting on a high branch.
“I can get her,” he said.
“You can? Oh, will you please? You’d be my hero!” she said.
Herbie liked the sound of being a hero. He flexed his arms and neck like his favorite super hero, Captain Kerblam. He turned his hat back on and gently flew up to the branch where the kitty was.
“Come with me, kitten!” Herbie said heroically.
“Meow!” said Miss Kitty.
“I just want to get you down. Is that okay?” asked Herbie, much less heroically.
“Hiss!” The kitten showed her teeth and swung a paw. He flew back down to the girl.
“Where is Miss Kitty? You said you could get her down!” the girl said. She started to cry again.
“Calm down. I’ll get her. Do you have any treats? I don’t want to get my face scratched off,” Herbie said, covering his face with his hands.
The girl went into her house. She came back with a yellow slice of cheese. She handed it to Herbie and smiled.
Herbie frowned, “Am I helping you get a kitten or a mouse?”
“Just get her! And do be nice to Miss Kitty. She is so very gentle,” she said.
“Gentle like a chainsaw,” said Herbie under his breath.
Herbie flew back up to the branch. The kitten hissed and shook its paw. Herbie wasn’t so sure about being a hero anymore. He held out the cheese. The kitten sniffed it and then hissed.
Herbie put the cheese at the end of the branch. He backed away and waited. Miss Kitty crawled out to the cheese licked it. He picked Miss Kitty up mostly by her tail. She wiggled and waved her paws violently at Herbie’s face as they floated down.
“Oh, thank you!” cried the little girl.
“Uh-huh,” said Herbie, glad to be alive.
Five minutes before the meeting, I plastered a smile on my face. Four minutes later, I dropped a jar of pickles, slipped and fell in the puddle, which, of course, was the precise moment that the committee walked in. All six of them. In heels.
Heels intimidate me. It started in 1972, when I had to wear heels to Aunt Julie’s wedding. I loved them – until I stood up. Then things got a little dicey. As I was sitting down at the wedding, I fell off the shoes. My flailing hand caught the first thing it found. Grandma’s hat. Which came off her head, along with her wiglet and thirty hairpins. Now, Grandma was a lady. In one swift movement she grabbed her hat and ten hairpins and before you could say, “Pour me a double,” she had it back on, never realizing that half her hair was gone. Somehow, one of the hairpins hit Grandpa in the eye and he spent the next half hour swatting imaginary bugs away, which wouldn’t have been so bad, itself, but his balance wasn’t so good, and every time he swatted, he lurched into Betty. Betty was tiny and the last time he lurched, he knocked her right off the pew, and into a bridesmaid walking up the aisle. At that moment, someone found Grandma’s wiglet and tossed it at the bridal party, shouting, “It’s alive!” The bridesmaids fled. Luckily the organist was at the end of Pachelbel’s Canon so there were a lot of notes and the organ drowned out the screaming. Eventually, the minister got everyone back and married Aunt Julie to Husband #1.
People still talk about it, but no one blames me because Husband #1 turned out to be a lying cheating son of a hillbilly. Also, I blamed it on Jimbo. He was a lying cheating son of a hillbilly, too.
I remembered all that while I was sitting in the pickle puddle trying to maintain my dignity before all those heels. All six heads turned and looked down. Then all twelve heels backed up a step.
My entry follows. I tried to make a self-contained story within my fantasy genre. Cross posted from my blog at: https://goo.gl/G91vj
——
Unwelcome Suitor
by Allan Petersen
Thomas heard familiar sobbing followed by a whiff of air, footsteps on the staircase, and the crash of door against frame.
"Danni, what's this all about?" He strained to listen, but heard only the sounds of the night. Thomas flicked his blindman's cane and shuffled towards the front door. "Did you leave the door open?"
He halted and screwed his lips into a frown. "Is there someone out there? Don't try to fool me. I may be blind but I'm afraid of no man."
"I'm here for your daughter," came the booming reply.
"You made her cry and you expect me to give her up for a date?"
"I don't think you understand–"
"Oh I understand. Your night is done here. Go."
"Not without your daughter."
Thomas laughed. "I like persistence in a man. Let me ask you a few questions then."
"Well–"
"Do you drink wine?"
"What? Er, no. I don't care for the taste."
"How would you know the taste if you don't drink it?"
"Uh, I–"
"Do you plan to have sexual relations with my daughter?"
A pause. "Sir, you should know that–"
"Yes or no."
"No!"
"How about a job?"
Another pause. "You could call me independently wealthy."
"Well what in bloody hell does that mean, son?"
"I have a hoard of treasure. Gold, jewelry, trinkets, gems–"
"Don't try to impress me, boy. I'm likely to say no. How about a home?"
"Atop a mountain."
"Atop a…my daughter is seventeen years old. Treasure and mountain abodes make you sound like a man. Just how old are you?"
"Nine hundred and twenty years old."
Thomas furrowed his brow until it touched the bridge of his nose. "You're a dragon," he muttered.
"Aye."
"Here to take my daughter because she's beautiful, and you wish to gaze upon her as she lives luxuriously amidst your treasures."
"Aye."
"Young knights and the like will come looking for her, you know."
"They will. But no man will touch her until I release her on her twenty-fifth birthday."
Silence.
"Right. She's yours, then."
Even knowing what to expect, the sight that greeted me in the front foyer made the bile rise to my throat. I clutched my waist and doubled over. Eric wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. His mess was splattered all over the floor and the walls.
“Eric?” I wheezed, trying not to breathe in too deeply. The smell was sickening.
Something crashed to the floor and Eric came creeping around the corner. “My dear? What are you doing home so early?”
The innocence on his face sickened me even more than the mess he left in the hallway. I straightened up and glared at him. “Oh don’t ‘my dear’ me! You promised me!” I screeched.
He sheepishly wrung his hands and shrugged. “I tried, Violet, I did. But I got hungry!”
I stormed up to Eric and slapped him across the face. The sting on my palm felt good, liberating. “I promised I would stay with you if you would only renounce your zombie ways! But I’ve had enough! I’m leaving you for Bob, the pool boy.”
“But, but, Bob is a vampire!”
“He’s a recovering vampire,” I said with my nose in the air. “And you don’t seem to be recovering from anything!”
Without even a second glance, I stormed out of the house, kicking the empty cranium of Eric’s last victim out of my way as I went.
I stopped at the curb and leaned against our steam mobile to catch my breath. I clutched at my chest and let the tears pour down my face. My heart was breaking in half like a speeding locomotive that took the turn too fast. So much of me wanted to get back in there and wrap my arms around him, but Eric had lied and I couldn’t sit around waiting for him to suck my brains.