Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Time Has Elapsed
Time has elapsed on the story writing contest.
Those who failed to submit are disqualified from winning this particular challenge, though the winner is free to choose someone who did not submit to choose a new challenge. We hope to get more participation in the future. Ahem, despite any “legitimate” excuses that people may have.
Excuses like, “I was out of the country,” or “An alien was growing in my peritoneal cavity,” or “I’m too cool,” or "I was going to, but I think the Lincoln assasination is still kind of clogging up my psyche," or whatever it may be.
Voting ends July 10, 2009 at precisely 2pm. Please have a read, a laugh, a smile, maybe shed a tear or two, and then vote for which story you liked best.
Sincerely,
Hercules Albinious Copperpot Dupré
Those who failed to submit are disqualified from winning this particular challenge, though the winner is free to choose someone who did not submit to choose a new challenge. We hope to get more participation in the future. Ahem, despite any “legitimate” excuses that people may have.
Excuses like, “I was out of the country,” or “An alien was growing in my peritoneal cavity,” or “I’m too cool,” or "I was going to, but I think the Lincoln assasination is still kind of clogging up my psyche," or whatever it may be.
Voting ends July 10, 2009 at precisely 2pm. Please have a read, a laugh, a smile, maybe shed a tear or two, and then vote for which story you liked best.
Sincerely,
Hercules Albinious Copperpot Dupré
Sunday, May 24, 2009
The Breadbox
It was a dark night. It was a stormy night. Far down wolves howled and wailed at the black, moonless sky like clerics of some primeval sodality. Aqueous orbs tumbled and twirled from their cumulonimbeous birth to the lonely earth below, shattering into millions of featureless specks - bursting and breaking their bodies on the windows of the house where, inside, it was warm and dry.
The last embers of the hearth fire were dying slowly as the old man sharpened his knife on the leather strap, crouched like a wizard at the cauldron. It had to be sharp. It would be sharp. He tried to avoid the thought of another night holed up in this old cabin. The rain and perhaps the wolves had driven them away to seek shelter, but he knew they would return. He could try and make a run for it but on foot and in his condition he’d make it one, maybe two miles before they caught his scent and chased him down.
The knife was sharp enough. He cracked the barrel of the shotgun – still loaded. Four shells left in the box. That meant five shots. That wasn’t much, but with the windows securely boarded, plenty of food and water, he could last four more weeks if he was careful. He stabbed a piece of spam with the knife and let it slide down into his mouth. The saltiness of the meat made him thirsty.
“Too bad there was no alcohol in this shack,” he thought. Not that he’d drink any. Sure, it’d take the edge off, but he needed that edge if he was going to survive this. He could still hear the wolves howling, but now it sounded less like a spiritual cry in the night and more like the barbaric yawp of a crazed warrior standing over his slain opponent, blood still steaming and sloshing out in waves while the dying heart convulsed in reflexive spasms.
“They must’ve got one,” he thought. Whether they did or whether the wolves would turn after eating their rotting flesh was a frippery he didn’t need to waste time thinking about. A swear left his lips. “Shit.” He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know anything.
Knock, knock, knock. They were here. He crouched down near the couch, the hair stood up in the back of his neck and he prepared himself for the barrage of pounding and moaning that would soon begin all around the cabin. He waited.
Knock, knock, knock. “Hello? Is anyone in there?” Knock, knock. The doorknob clicked and clacked as whoever it was tried to open the door. More knocking and then the voice again, that of a young girl. “Please, let me in.”
The old man peered through the peephole and saw a girl, maybe 19 or 20 standing outside; a dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over her blonde hair. She was soaked. He unlatched the bolts and chains and removed the board laid across the frame and opened the door, ushering the young woman in and then quickly relocking the door and replacing the heavy board that barricaded it.
“Who are you? Where did you come from?” barked the old man.
“My name is Shannon, we were camping up at Deep Creek when they came,” she said tearfully. “My family is dead. What are they?”
“The living dead,” said the man, avoiding any chance for misunderstanding.
“What do you mean?” asked the girl.
“What I said. Like the Book of Revelations says, the dead will rise, the sea will yield up her dead, yadda yadda yadda, and so here we are.”
The arrival of the girl meant company, but it also meant danger. Four weeks turned to 2, maybe 3 with an extra 140lbs to feed. His chances of making it on foot were even less now, unless… no, no, thay wasn’t a viable option. Her couldn’t be like them or leave her to them.
Now that she was here though, a dreadful realization came into his head: the breadbox. She couldn’t touch it, she couldn’t touch it. She must never open it or touch it.
“Don’t touch the breadbox.”
“What?”
“Leave my breadbox alone. Never open it.”
“What? Okay fine,” the girl answered confused.
“It’s just – I don’t like – Don’t mess with it or look inside. I have a phobia of people messing with my breadbox.”
“Okay,” the girl said, unsure of how to react, unsure about whether this cabin was actually safer than the woods, even with them out there. At least it was better to be locked inside with an old kook and his vagaries than be outside with a group of cannibalistic undead. The breadbox looked normal enough, and she was fine with leaving it alone.
“You hungry?” snapped the old man.
“No,” Shannon said, pulling her knees up to her chest as she sat against the wall.
“There’s beans on the stove.”
“No thank you, I’m not hungry.”
“Well you will be soon enough.”
Five days passed by with no sign of life or them outside the cabin. The rain had stopped, but no birds sang, and at night there were no more cries from the wolves, not even the crickets chirped. Shannon’s initial concerns about the old man faded as time passed on. Since his initial warning about the breadbox, he hadn’t done anything crazy or irrational. In fact, he had proven quite saavy and aware of current events, movies, etc. He reminded her of her grandfather except he was clean shaven and her grandfather wore a well-trimmed moustache. She had never seen him touch the breadbox or open it. Her curiosity grew day by day.
On the sixth day, she decided she would wait until the old man fell asleep in the late afternoon, as he had for the five days beforehand, then she would quickly flip open the lid of the breadbox, see what was inside, and close it just as quickly. A short glimpse would be all she’d need.
About four-o’clock, the old man’s eyelids started to droop and before long, his breathing took on the unmistakable rhythm of slumber. She crept quickly and quietly across the room to the counter where the breadbox lie. Her fingers steadily reached for the small handle, wrapped around it, and gently lifted up to reveal the inside of the box.
The old man was ripped awake by a powerful force, as if someone had tied a speedboat to his chest and pulled him off the beach at full power. Then he felt the freezing cold and the void and blackness all around him. He struggled for breath, as he floated helplessly about, the young girl slowly rotating a few feet from him, mimicking the rotation of the blue planet below. As each one of his cells was cut to shreds by the ice crystals beginning to form inside them and as his lungs sucked in on themselves like a vacuum packed steak he had two almost simultaneous thoughts: he should’ve taken his chances with the zombies, and that stupid girl opened the breadbox. She opened the damn breadbox.
The last embers of the hearth fire were dying slowly as the old man sharpened his knife on the leather strap, crouched like a wizard at the cauldron. It had to be sharp. It would be sharp. He tried to avoid the thought of another night holed up in this old cabin. The rain and perhaps the wolves had driven them away to seek shelter, but he knew they would return. He could try and make a run for it but on foot and in his condition he’d make it one, maybe two miles before they caught his scent and chased him down.
The knife was sharp enough. He cracked the barrel of the shotgun – still loaded. Four shells left in the box. That meant five shots. That wasn’t much, but with the windows securely boarded, plenty of food and water, he could last four more weeks if he was careful. He stabbed a piece of spam with the knife and let it slide down into his mouth. The saltiness of the meat made him thirsty.
“Too bad there was no alcohol in this shack,” he thought. Not that he’d drink any. Sure, it’d take the edge off, but he needed that edge if he was going to survive this. He could still hear the wolves howling, but now it sounded less like a spiritual cry in the night and more like the barbaric yawp of a crazed warrior standing over his slain opponent, blood still steaming and sloshing out in waves while the dying heart convulsed in reflexive spasms.
“They must’ve got one,” he thought. Whether they did or whether the wolves would turn after eating their rotting flesh was a frippery he didn’t need to waste time thinking about. A swear left his lips. “Shit.” He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know anything.
Knock, knock, knock. They were here. He crouched down near the couch, the hair stood up in the back of his neck and he prepared himself for the barrage of pounding and moaning that would soon begin all around the cabin. He waited.
Knock, knock, knock. “Hello? Is anyone in there?” Knock, knock. The doorknob clicked and clacked as whoever it was tried to open the door. More knocking and then the voice again, that of a young girl. “Please, let me in.”
The old man peered through the peephole and saw a girl, maybe 19 or 20 standing outside; a dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over her blonde hair. She was soaked. He unlatched the bolts and chains and removed the board laid across the frame and opened the door, ushering the young woman in and then quickly relocking the door and replacing the heavy board that barricaded it.
“Who are you? Where did you come from?” barked the old man.
“My name is Shannon, we were camping up at Deep Creek when they came,” she said tearfully. “My family is dead. What are they?”
“The living dead,” said the man, avoiding any chance for misunderstanding.
“What do you mean?” asked the girl.
“What I said. Like the Book of Revelations says, the dead will rise, the sea will yield up her dead, yadda yadda yadda, and so here we are.”
The arrival of the girl meant company, but it also meant danger. Four weeks turned to 2, maybe 3 with an extra 140lbs to feed. His chances of making it on foot were even less now, unless… no, no, thay wasn’t a viable option. Her couldn’t be like them or leave her to them.
Now that she was here though, a dreadful realization came into his head: the breadbox. She couldn’t touch it, she couldn’t touch it. She must never open it or touch it.
“Don’t touch the breadbox.”
“What?”
“Leave my breadbox alone. Never open it.”
“What? Okay fine,” the girl answered confused.
“It’s just – I don’t like – Don’t mess with it or look inside. I have a phobia of people messing with my breadbox.”
“Okay,” the girl said, unsure of how to react, unsure about whether this cabin was actually safer than the woods, even with them out there. At least it was better to be locked inside with an old kook and his vagaries than be outside with a group of cannibalistic undead. The breadbox looked normal enough, and she was fine with leaving it alone.
“You hungry?” snapped the old man.
“No,” Shannon said, pulling her knees up to her chest as she sat against the wall.
“There’s beans on the stove.”
“No thank you, I’m not hungry.”
“Well you will be soon enough.”
Five days passed by with no sign of life or them outside the cabin. The rain had stopped, but no birds sang, and at night there were no more cries from the wolves, not even the crickets chirped. Shannon’s initial concerns about the old man faded as time passed on. Since his initial warning about the breadbox, he hadn’t done anything crazy or irrational. In fact, he had proven quite saavy and aware of current events, movies, etc. He reminded her of her grandfather except he was clean shaven and her grandfather wore a well-trimmed moustache. She had never seen him touch the breadbox or open it. Her curiosity grew day by day.
On the sixth day, she decided she would wait until the old man fell asleep in the late afternoon, as he had for the five days beforehand, then she would quickly flip open the lid of the breadbox, see what was inside, and close it just as quickly. A short glimpse would be all she’d need.
About four-o’clock, the old man’s eyelids started to droop and before long, his breathing took on the unmistakable rhythm of slumber. She crept quickly and quietly across the room to the counter where the breadbox lie. Her fingers steadily reached for the small handle, wrapped around it, and gently lifted up to reveal the inside of the box.
The old man was ripped awake by a powerful force, as if someone had tied a speedboat to his chest and pulled him off the beach at full power. Then he felt the freezing cold and the void and blackness all around him. He struggled for breath, as he floated helplessly about, the young girl slowly rotating a few feet from him, mimicking the rotation of the blue planet below. As each one of his cells was cut to shreds by the ice crystals beginning to form inside them and as his lungs sucked in on themselves like a vacuum packed steak he had two almost simultaneous thoughts: he should’ve taken his chances with the zombies, and that stupid girl opened the breadbox. She opened the damn breadbox.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Adventures of Liz, Book 3: A Winter’s Feel Good Story
It was a dark night. It was a stormy night. Far down wolves howled and wailed at the black, moonless sky like clerics of some primeval sodality. Aqueous orbs tumbled and twirled from their cumulonimbeous birth to the lonely earth below, shattering into millions of featureless specks - bursting and breaking their bodies on the windows of the house where, inside, it was warm and dry.
However, despite the warmth, the mood in the house was a sniffly, miserable sort. The combined bad mood of 20 or so out-of-shape individuals who had just skied cross country for 3 hours through torrential snow. Liz had warned them. She didn’t know how this trip had ever taken off in the first place. Eric, her supervisor, had said he’d like her to plan a little outing for the office. To engender office solidarity. Liz thought that really Eric hoped having her plan it would make her feel more a part of the office team, not so new. Liz agreed to do it with some trepidation, thinking no one – except maybe a few of the student employees – would sign up to come. Not all these mothers and fathers and grandparents that worked here.
She didn’t know that Eric had sent everyone else in the office a memo “strongly encouraging” them to go on the retreat. When she’d seen that most of the office had signed up to come, she had said a swear. A very bad one.
As the day of the retreat approached Liz had hoped that the threat of a snow storm would scare everyone off. She imagined several people excusing themselves, saying, “I’m sorry but I have the most terrible fear of, um, snow.” Instead Eric assured everyone that the snow wouldn’t come until later in the day, and if they left early enough they’d be safe and warm in plenty of time. Liz had wanted to say, “No one ever leaves early enough,” but she refrained.
They did not leave early enough. And of course everyone had weighed down their packs with all the frippery items Liz had told them not to bring. She found it hard to watch her colleagues try to manage the skis with their legs wobbling here and there. It didn’t take long for people to start saying things like, “I thought you said it was flat,” with fake smiles on their strained faces.
Joey and Steve were the only student employees that had ended up coming. They were athletic and kept rushing off ahead of the group then skiing back without even working up a sweat, reminding Liz of a couple of 7 year olds and irritating everyone else. About every 15 minutes one or another of the group would ask for a rest stop. After about an hour Gerald – an older man who Liz though of as a suspicious character – said, “How close are we? It’s gotta be only a few more minutes.” When Liz said they weren’t even half way, he called her a bad word. One which even she seldom used.
Soon after that it started snowing. Hard. Most of them hadn’t worn the proper gear and were soon soaked through (“I thought you said cotton was good for wicking!” Phyllis had said.) An hour later, a few people had actually started crying, and the requests for rest stops had increased to every 5 minutes.
Liz suggested at one point that they should turn around, but Eric swore it would take less time to forge on to the house. He seemed to be having the time of his life, and Liz was pretty sure that some of her colleagues would never forgive him for it. Nor, she bet, would they forgive her.
When they finally reached the house and threw their wet, frozen bodies through the doorway, Liz thought no one except Eric, Joey, and Steve, would ever talk to her again. Everyone else huddled together near the fire, which Liz had made sure to get started as soon as she’d laid her gear to the side. They kept their backs to her. Eric sat with them, talking cheerfully, and people responded because he was their boss, though they gave him bitter looks behind his back. After getting settled Joey and Steve pulled out a couple packs of beer each. Liz looked at them in barely covered disbelief. What kind of vagaries did they think they were going to be getting up to out here?
It didn’t take long for the two boys to get stupid drunk. Some people had started talking about braving the cold again in order to use the outhouse situated several yards from the house, but no one wanted to do it. Suddenly Joey offered, “If you don’t want to walk all the way to the outhouse just go in the snow.” Someone retorted that it would be even colder.
“You just gotta brace yourself.” Joey said.
“Why don’t you do it then?” Steve said, laughing a little in a stupid drunk sort of way. I bet you can’t stay out there long enough to write your whole name in the snow.”
“I bet I can stay out there longer than you can.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Liz said. She didn’t have much patience for these sorts of competitions. But Steve and Joey didn’t listen to her. When they pulled open the door, the wind that blew in felt frigid. Everyone shouted at them until they closed the door behind them. A couple people got up to watch them through the window, but most everyone else stayed by the fire, pretending at disinterest. Liz didn’t imagine that Steve and Joey’s delicate man parts could stand up to the freezing air for long, and she was right. Steve got to the second ‘e’ in his name before zipping up and rushing back to the house, where he hopped and grunted and tried not to cradle his crotch.
Joey forced himself almost to the second to last letter of his last name, Belliozingel, then came stumbling back in, trying to force a look of triumph onto his pained face. “I’m the Wizard of Whizz!” he shouted, then crumpled up in a ball, grabbed his privates, and began to moan.
For a moment everyone stayed silent, but as they watched the two boys writhe on the floor, the humor of the situation began to overcome the bad moods brought on by the arduous cross country trek. Everyone started laughing. Eventually even Steve and Joey laughed too. 20 minutes later, a few card games and board games had broken out. Phyllis had pulled Liz into a conversation with a couple other ladies, Eric was telling some of the other men about the time he escaped an avalanche, and Steve and Joey – having changed into warmer pants – sat with Gerald, exchanging what sounded like dirty jokes. Liz looked around, and thought maybe the retreat hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.
However, despite the warmth, the mood in the house was a sniffly, miserable sort. The combined bad mood of 20 or so out-of-shape individuals who had just skied cross country for 3 hours through torrential snow. Liz had warned them. She didn’t know how this trip had ever taken off in the first place. Eric, her supervisor, had said he’d like her to plan a little outing for the office. To engender office solidarity. Liz thought that really Eric hoped having her plan it would make her feel more a part of the office team, not so new. Liz agreed to do it with some trepidation, thinking no one – except maybe a few of the student employees – would sign up to come. Not all these mothers and fathers and grandparents that worked here.
She didn’t know that Eric had sent everyone else in the office a memo “strongly encouraging” them to go on the retreat. When she’d seen that most of the office had signed up to come, she had said a swear. A very bad one.
As the day of the retreat approached Liz had hoped that the threat of a snow storm would scare everyone off. She imagined several people excusing themselves, saying, “I’m sorry but I have the most terrible fear of, um, snow.” Instead Eric assured everyone that the snow wouldn’t come until later in the day, and if they left early enough they’d be safe and warm in plenty of time. Liz had wanted to say, “No one ever leaves early enough,” but she refrained.
They did not leave early enough. And of course everyone had weighed down their packs with all the frippery items Liz had told them not to bring. She found it hard to watch her colleagues try to manage the skis with their legs wobbling here and there. It didn’t take long for people to start saying things like, “I thought you said it was flat,” with fake smiles on their strained faces.
Joey and Steve were the only student employees that had ended up coming. They were athletic and kept rushing off ahead of the group then skiing back without even working up a sweat, reminding Liz of a couple of 7 year olds and irritating everyone else. About every 15 minutes one or another of the group would ask for a rest stop. After about an hour Gerald – an older man who Liz though of as a suspicious character – said, “How close are we? It’s gotta be only a few more minutes.” When Liz said they weren’t even half way, he called her a bad word. One which even she seldom used.
Soon after that it started snowing. Hard. Most of them hadn’t worn the proper gear and were soon soaked through (“I thought you said cotton was good for wicking!” Phyllis had said.) An hour later, a few people had actually started crying, and the requests for rest stops had increased to every 5 minutes.
Liz suggested at one point that they should turn around, but Eric swore it would take less time to forge on to the house. He seemed to be having the time of his life, and Liz was pretty sure that some of her colleagues would never forgive him for it. Nor, she bet, would they forgive her.
When they finally reached the house and threw their wet, frozen bodies through the doorway, Liz thought no one except Eric, Joey, and Steve, would ever talk to her again. Everyone else huddled together near the fire, which Liz had made sure to get started as soon as she’d laid her gear to the side. They kept their backs to her. Eric sat with them, talking cheerfully, and people responded because he was their boss, though they gave him bitter looks behind his back. After getting settled Joey and Steve pulled out a couple packs of beer each. Liz looked at them in barely covered disbelief. What kind of vagaries did they think they were going to be getting up to out here?
It didn’t take long for the two boys to get stupid drunk. Some people had started talking about braving the cold again in order to use the outhouse situated several yards from the house, but no one wanted to do it. Suddenly Joey offered, “If you don’t want to walk all the way to the outhouse just go in the snow.” Someone retorted that it would be even colder.
“You just gotta brace yourself.” Joey said.
“Why don’t you do it then?” Steve said, laughing a little in a stupid drunk sort of way. I bet you can’t stay out there long enough to write your whole name in the snow.”
“I bet I can stay out there longer than you can.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Liz said. She didn’t have much patience for these sorts of competitions. But Steve and Joey didn’t listen to her. When they pulled open the door, the wind that blew in felt frigid. Everyone shouted at them until they closed the door behind them. A couple people got up to watch them through the window, but most everyone else stayed by the fire, pretending at disinterest. Liz didn’t imagine that Steve and Joey’s delicate man parts could stand up to the freezing air for long, and she was right. Steve got to the second ‘e’ in his name before zipping up and rushing back to the house, where he hopped and grunted and tried not to cradle his crotch.
Joey forced himself almost to the second to last letter of his last name, Belliozingel, then came stumbling back in, trying to force a look of triumph onto his pained face. “I’m the Wizard of Whizz!” he shouted, then crumpled up in a ball, grabbed his privates, and began to moan.
For a moment everyone stayed silent, but as they watched the two boys writhe on the floor, the humor of the situation began to overcome the bad moods brought on by the arduous cross country trek. Everyone started laughing. Eventually even Steve and Joey laughed too. 20 minutes later, a few card games and board games had broken out. Phyllis had pulled Liz into a conversation with a couple other ladies, Eric was telling some of the other men about the time he escaped an avalanche, and Steve and Joey – having changed into warmer pants – sat with Gerald, exchanging what sounded like dirty jokes. Liz looked around, and thought maybe the retreat hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
