Uncanny, no?
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.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Give Bollywood
another chance... and that is assuming you've written it off. I had until I saw this.
But it's back for some serious ass kicking!
But it's back for some serious ass kicking!
Sunday, May 17, 2009
They Came to Us
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.
Of course, warm and dry were relative words in this case as the night cap cart had tipped over and spilled the what Jeremy had thought of as quite a fine collection of spirits. And even after cleaning away the precious liqueurs, his spirits remained dampened. Nor did this help Gail’s mood. She was visiting from Oregon where she had moved years before in hopes of tracking down Big Foot. In ten years she had yet to have a sighting although certain evidences suggested some kind of presence. She and Jeremy had been school friends who had crushes enough to keep in touch and who kept in touch enough to get together when she was in town, but not enough to have much to talk about when they did. They sat at a table near a window watching the rain after Jeremy’s attempt at talking about Ruskin hadn’t got going.
Had they been able to follow those specks, tracing them to where they coalesced in the clouds, they would have seen a similarly shaped but utterly alien speck also tumbling and twirling, with infinitely greater grace and purpose, down towards the house, its windows, and its spirit-dampened occupants. This orb, utterly un-cumulonimban in origin grew larger and larger as it approached until finally, even with the scant light and their coarse eyes, they saw what looked like a huge rain drop descend out of the sky, stop near the ground, then shift into a fairly human, though unisex, form.
Jeremy let out a swear. What was this/that? He blinked. Gail blinked. The thing blinked and began walking towards them.
Jeremy scrambled. Think eggs. He grabbed all around him looking for something, hyperventilating, and crouching low to the ground. Gail didn’t move. It wasn’t so much that she was brave, but that she seemed caught in some wizard spell. This was weird. The humanoid approached the house, his feet barely echoing on the wooden porch before the door opened, and it walked inside. Gail had turned her head, and Jeremy now froze, arms out, half crouching near the couch as if he was in the middle of the escalator gag he’d been fond of for about a semester in College.
The humanoid looked first at Gail and then, for a slightly longer time, at Jeremy while he emitted a soft humming sound for a few moments. There was a pause in which the impossibility of breaking the silence in the room settled down on Gail and Jeremy with a force they had never known. Jeremy thought it would drive him mad. Then it spoke.
“You are male and female of the species?”
It spoke perfectly, but there was something unfamiliar about the way it came out. Neither could tell if it was the flattish tone, the feeling that it was spoken with at once none and all of the dialects of English, or the way he paused one moment before each time he spoke and then rushed through everything. Something in the way the voice formed words perhaps. Had things turned out differently, they may have discussed this at great length on similarly rainy nights when she was back in town. As it was, Jeremy had no one to really talk to about it.
It was Gail who said, yes.
“I have been searching for something like you for a very long time.”
Jeremy’s first reaction was sarcastic. Really? You didn’t see the tons of other males and females down the street or… his thoughts were engulfed in tangents of how this being sensed until it was brought back to the pain in his leg muscles from standing so long and its next request.
“Will you come and meet my people?”
Again it was Gail who said, yes. It was then that he gained a hitherto unknown appreciation for the vagaries of the feminine mind. The being seemed unsurprised, if it felt such things. It did however, nod.
“You’ve been watching us?” Jeremy finally spoke. A longer pause than usual before it nodded and said, “that is how you would understand. We will go now.” It expanded into an amorphous bubble that was half open with lighted footprints walking up into its middle. One set was pink, one was blue. Gail smiled in spite of the strangeness, Jeremy was blank faced. They looked at each other for a moment before Gail, still smiling, walked towards the visitor, followed the pink footsteps inside, turned, and looked at Jeremy. What could he do? He followed.
With so many things vying for the title of the strangest thing, it was the in flight TV that seemed to be offered. Even Jeremy had to laugh at that in spite of kind of wishing they could just look out a window or something. They could tell they were rising and moving in different directions, but little else. After some silence, the voice of their visitor/conveyance spoke again.
“Are you communicating right now? Or do you have nothing to say? You have questions for me perhaps? I am from far away from a similar but advanced planet. Remarkably similar.”
“You’re like us?” Gail asked, incredulous.
“We were. We have since discarded much frippery you hang on to. Again, it was in the small things that this experience most approached unreality.
Soon Jeremy also became capable of small talk with the visitor. Most small talk ended however when they found out the visitor had been searching for other life for more than 20 million years. After asking many many times, confirming there was no miscommunication, another silence fell on the occupants until they felt themselves slowing down.
Moments later the skin, or whatever it was, slid open, and they saw a small group of more unisex humanoids with similarly clear, sleek, and luminescent skin staring at them. Gail fainted. Jeremy looked at her, dumb. Suddenly they were both outside their visitor who told him not to worry, they would restore her to optimal working order and to please come with him. She was taken by another of the aliens while he was ushered to a sitting room. He would curse this weakness later.
While waiting, Jeremy came out of his numbness. Well, if anyone could fix her it would probably be these things, he thought. His host told him she had sprained one of her ankles and gotten a bruise. How it knew, he didn’t know.
“So, you going to take me to your leader or something? Didn’t want to see mine?”
A short pause and then, “we are our leaders. We work together.” That didn’t seem to be an answer to Jeremy, so he asked less questions.
Curiosity and discomfort finally forced a “Are you a man or a woman?” It seemed his host was avoiding the question with talk of malleability and progress when two more aliens entered the room. One said, “the female of the species has been restored to working condition and upgraded to near optimal performance.” Jeremy didn’t immediately know that “near optimal” meant that everything except her 23-year-old brain had been replaced by their kind hosts. In a voice both alien and familiar Jeremy heard his name. It was then that he stopped taking a passive role in the events occurring.
Of course, warm and dry were relative words in this case as the night cap cart had tipped over and spilled the what Jeremy had thought of as quite a fine collection of spirits. And even after cleaning away the precious liqueurs, his spirits remained dampened. Nor did this help Gail’s mood. She was visiting from Oregon where she had moved years before in hopes of tracking down Big Foot. In ten years she had yet to have a sighting although certain evidences suggested some kind of presence. She and Jeremy had been school friends who had crushes enough to keep in touch and who kept in touch enough to get together when she was in town, but not enough to have much to talk about when they did. They sat at a table near a window watching the rain after Jeremy’s attempt at talking about Ruskin hadn’t got going.
Had they been able to follow those specks, tracing them to where they coalesced in the clouds, they would have seen a similarly shaped but utterly alien speck also tumbling and twirling, with infinitely greater grace and purpose, down towards the house, its windows, and its spirit-dampened occupants. This orb, utterly un-cumulonimban in origin grew larger and larger as it approached until finally, even with the scant light and their coarse eyes, they saw what looked like a huge rain drop descend out of the sky, stop near the ground, then shift into a fairly human, though unisex, form.
Jeremy let out a swear. What was this/that? He blinked. Gail blinked. The thing blinked and began walking towards them.
Jeremy scrambled. Think eggs. He grabbed all around him looking for something, hyperventilating, and crouching low to the ground. Gail didn’t move. It wasn’t so much that she was brave, but that she seemed caught in some wizard spell. This was weird. The humanoid approached the house, his feet barely echoing on the wooden porch before the door opened, and it walked inside. Gail had turned her head, and Jeremy now froze, arms out, half crouching near the couch as if he was in the middle of the escalator gag he’d been fond of for about a semester in College.
The humanoid looked first at Gail and then, for a slightly longer time, at Jeremy while he emitted a soft humming sound for a few moments. There was a pause in which the impossibility of breaking the silence in the room settled down on Gail and Jeremy with a force they had never known. Jeremy thought it would drive him mad. Then it spoke.
“You are male and female of the species?”
It spoke perfectly, but there was something unfamiliar about the way it came out. Neither could tell if it was the flattish tone, the feeling that it was spoken with at once none and all of the dialects of English, or the way he paused one moment before each time he spoke and then rushed through everything. Something in the way the voice formed words perhaps. Had things turned out differently, they may have discussed this at great length on similarly rainy nights when she was back in town. As it was, Jeremy had no one to really talk to about it.
It was Gail who said, yes.
“I have been searching for something like you for a very long time.”
Jeremy’s first reaction was sarcastic. Really? You didn’t see the tons of other males and females down the street or… his thoughts were engulfed in tangents of how this being sensed until it was brought back to the pain in his leg muscles from standing so long and its next request.
“Will you come and meet my people?”
Again it was Gail who said, yes. It was then that he gained a hitherto unknown appreciation for the vagaries of the feminine mind. The being seemed unsurprised, if it felt such things. It did however, nod.
“You’ve been watching us?” Jeremy finally spoke. A longer pause than usual before it nodded and said, “that is how you would understand. We will go now.” It expanded into an amorphous bubble that was half open with lighted footprints walking up into its middle. One set was pink, one was blue. Gail smiled in spite of the strangeness, Jeremy was blank faced. They looked at each other for a moment before Gail, still smiling, walked towards the visitor, followed the pink footsteps inside, turned, and looked at Jeremy. What could he do? He followed.
With so many things vying for the title of the strangest thing, it was the in flight TV that seemed to be offered. Even Jeremy had to laugh at that in spite of kind of wishing they could just look out a window or something. They could tell they were rising and moving in different directions, but little else. After some silence, the voice of their visitor/conveyance spoke again.
“Are you communicating right now? Or do you have nothing to say? You have questions for me perhaps? I am from far away from a similar but advanced planet. Remarkably similar.”
“You’re like us?” Gail asked, incredulous.
“We were. We have since discarded much frippery you hang on to. Again, it was in the small things that this experience most approached unreality.
Soon Jeremy also became capable of small talk with the visitor. Most small talk ended however when they found out the visitor had been searching for other life for more than 20 million years. After asking many many times, confirming there was no miscommunication, another silence fell on the occupants until they felt themselves slowing down.
Moments later the skin, or whatever it was, slid open, and they saw a small group of more unisex humanoids with similarly clear, sleek, and luminescent skin staring at them. Gail fainted. Jeremy looked at her, dumb. Suddenly they were both outside their visitor who told him not to worry, they would restore her to optimal working order and to please come with him. She was taken by another of the aliens while he was ushered to a sitting room. He would curse this weakness later.
While waiting, Jeremy came out of his numbness. Well, if anyone could fix her it would probably be these things, he thought. His host told him she had sprained one of her ankles and gotten a bruise. How it knew, he didn’t know.
“So, you going to take me to your leader or something? Didn’t want to see mine?”
A short pause and then, “we are our leaders. We work together.” That didn’t seem to be an answer to Jeremy, so he asked less questions.
Curiosity and discomfort finally forced a “Are you a man or a woman?” It seemed his host was avoiding the question with talk of malleability and progress when two more aliens entered the room. One said, “the female of the species has been restored to working condition and upgraded to near optimal performance.” Jeremy didn’t immediately know that “near optimal” meant that everything except her 23-year-old brain had been replaced by their kind hosts. In a voice both alien and familiar Jeremy heard his name. It was then that he stopped taking a passive role in the events occurring.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Contest Extension
Due to inclement weather, the contest deadline has been extended one week.
Now everyone better submit one.
Or else.
Meanwhile. Watch this. You're gonna love my nuts. Stop have boring tuna. Stop having a boring life.
Now everyone better submit one.
Or else.
Meanwhile. Watch this. You're gonna love my nuts. Stop have boring tuna. Stop having a boring life.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
So this is the new challenge, and it's somewhat more structured than previous challenges. Below you will find opening lines to a story. Your task is to finish the story.
You must start with the prompt:
Prompt:
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.
You are limited to 4 double-spaced, 12 point font, 1-in margin pages and you must include the following words and elements:
Words:
• frippery
• vagaries
• "a swear" - as in "Liz said a swear." Literally the word "a", followed by the word "swear."
• wizard
Elements:
• A suspicious character
• Some kind of phobia
• A misunderstanding
Due Date: Saturday, May 9
You must start with the prompt:
Prompt:
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.
You are limited to 4 double-spaced, 12 point font, 1-in margin pages and you must include the following words and elements:
Words:
• frippery
• vagaries
• "a swear" - as in "Liz said a swear." Literally the word "a", followed by the word "swear."
• wizard
Elements:
• A suspicious character
• Some kind of phobia
• A misunderstanding
Due Date: Saturday, May 9
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
Transporter 3: Revolutionizing World Cinema or Not as Good as the First Two?
So Rose and I saw Transporter 3 this past week and it was an exciting affair around the edges. I could have done without the romance in the middle.
I just have to say that it was a perfect example of Jim's idea of the hyper-masculine film. He kicks everyone's a$$, drives a $120,000 car with a W-12 engine (which is 3x the size of my little Hyundai engine and 4x the horsepower), has sexy European women begging to have sex with him, and he's totally ripped/has a sweet accent/drives his car on top of/into a train. Plus he floated his sinking car out of a river using dufflebags filled with air from the tires, got the car running again in less than 10 minutes, somehow got more air into the tires and was off to catch the stupid baddy.
The only things that doesn't fit Jim's idea is that the Transporter is friends with a French guy and he fishes with a pole and not a speargun/nuclear submarine.
So in the end, it was a decent action romp, but nothing compared to this sequence from the first movie:
Arguably the best scene in any movie, anywhere, at anytime, ever.
We did get to see more of Jason Statham's signature front kick in Transporter 3, which was good, but all in all, I'd say it wasn't a great ending to the trilogy, although there were plenty of fireworks. The first one really is, and I'm not exaggerating, an all-time action classic and will go down in history as such. One of the best indie action movies of all time, if not the best.
I just have to say that it was a perfect example of Jim's idea of the hyper-masculine film. He kicks everyone's a$$, drives a $120,000 car with a W-12 engine (which is 3x the size of my little Hyundai engine and 4x the horsepower), has sexy European women begging to have sex with him, and he's totally ripped/has a sweet accent/drives his car on top of/into a train. Plus he floated his sinking car out of a river using dufflebags filled with air from the tires, got the car running again in less than 10 minutes, somehow got more air into the tires and was off to catch the stupid baddy.
The only things that doesn't fit Jim's idea is that the Transporter is friends with a French guy and he fishes with a pole and not a speargun/nuclear submarine.
So in the end, it was a decent action romp, but nothing compared to this sequence from the first movie:
We did get to see more of Jason Statham's signature front kick in Transporter 3, which was good, but all in all, I'd say it wasn't a great ending to the trilogy, although there were plenty of fireworks. The first one really is, and I'm not exaggerating, an all-time action classic and will go down in history as such. One of the best indie action movies of all time, if not the best.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Saw this and had to share
In the "real world" these villains totally would have dominated their counterpart "heroes" no matter how much I may have loved/love them.
7 Bad Ass Cartoon Villains Who Lost to Lame Heroes.
7 Bad Ass Cartoon Villains Who Lost to Lame Heroes.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Our most effervescent and enthusiastic congratulations...
To Rose & Jordan, who tied for first place in Aed the Whelpe's latest challenge! In addition to joining your brilliant brains together to determine the next challenge, you are also both the winners of the secret, mysterious, extra special additional prize, which was to name Rose & Jordan's first baby. Please enjoy this privilege, which would otherwise not have been yours.Monday, February 2, 2009
Along these lines...
Did you know that the actor who plays Mr. Boddy in Clue is a man named Lee Ving?
Saturday, January 24, 2009
What's in a Spame?
Three months ago, throughout the night, I began to receive spam from Asia every twelve to 18 minutes. Like most things from Asia, it’s kind of quirkier and more awesome than what we get in the states. The spam itself is completely unintelligible, but they addresses are all from addresses with first and last names. Delightful first and last names that give me no end of pleasure. Seriously. I can’t empty my spam box usually until I’ve checked if there are any lovely names waiting for me.
Usually spam comes from someone like nbx2att4pn6wrlm-ny@booksable.com or b4enaifsno2a8h-8be@pagejewel.com. But these came from real sounding, though ethnically confused, names. Names that seem like real people. I love the attention to detail it provides. People like Frederic Dutton, Pansy Herrington, Nadia Downing, Hilary Prescott, Ollie Cormier, Julia Guevara, Rosa Dowdy, Ivan Velez, and Nora Hogue. Names of people that I might want to use in a novel I might someday write. Not a novel about a group of lovable but slightly detestable spammers going through life, love, and mid-20s-angst, but some international psychological thriller with Nadia as my heroine. Or perhaps Nora. Nora Hogue, international secretary for a WHO exec who gets murdered just as an odd but attractive man shows up in her life at a gala.
And there are more. The evocative but inscrutable Penelope Lanier for instance. Her lovable but meddlesome neighbor, Frankie Lambert. And Sebastian Washington is just waiting for a Dickensian novel to come give him his rags to riches story. Maura Simms, neglected child of avid online second lifers. Latisha Denny, daughter of immigrants or mixed parentage or just a small town girl who craved an exotic name change when she came of age? Herschel Knight, Jewish? Chivalrous? Lovable but prudish, Teddy Pritchett. Everyone’s pal, Bobbie Guy. Or the round-faced man of mystery, Owen Napier. The erudite trucker, Liechtenstein Fenton. And, finally, the fabled, many-faced Lazaro Potter who stars in daytime soaps opposite Tisha Williams.
Usually spam comes from someone like nbx2att4pn6wrlm-ny@booksable.com or b4enaifsno2a8h-8be@pagejewel.com. But these came from real sounding, though ethnically confused, names. Names that seem like real people. I love the attention to detail it provides. People like Frederic Dutton, Pansy Herrington, Nadia Downing, Hilary Prescott, Ollie Cormier, Julia Guevara, Rosa Dowdy, Ivan Velez, and Nora Hogue. Names of people that I might want to use in a novel I might someday write. Not a novel about a group of lovable but slightly detestable spammers going through life, love, and mid-20s-angst, but some international psychological thriller with Nadia as my heroine. Or perhaps Nora. Nora Hogue, international secretary for a WHO exec who gets murdered just as an odd but attractive man shows up in her life at a gala.
And there are more. The evocative but inscrutable Penelope Lanier for instance. Her lovable but meddlesome neighbor, Frankie Lambert. And Sebastian Washington is just waiting for a Dickensian novel to come give him his rags to riches story. Maura Simms, neglected child of avid online second lifers. Latisha Denny, daughter of immigrants or mixed parentage or just a small town girl who craved an exotic name change when she came of age? Herschel Knight, Jewish? Chivalrous? Lovable but prudish, Teddy Pritchett. Everyone’s pal, Bobbie Guy. Or the round-faced man of mystery, Owen Napier. The erudite trucker, Liechtenstein Fenton. And, finally, the fabled, many-faced Lazaro Potter who stars in daytime soaps opposite Tisha Williams.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Remember Rosdan?
Well, this is son of Rosdan.
I hereby present the Next-in-line Custodian of Scotland, Jr., the Right Honourable Socrates Caligula Trevor Trevor Trevor Faux Fur For Fox Fur Ford Faux, Esq.
I hereby present the Next-in-line Custodian of Scotland, Jr., the Right Honourable Socrates Caligula Trevor Trevor Trevor Faux Fur For Fox Fur Ford Faux, Esq.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Name That Baby!!!
Over the weekend I was considering letting myself be defeated by a bad man and an American stick insect. By the time I had decided to not be defeated, the deadline for this had already passed. But I'm submitting this anyway. And I must give credit for the inception of this idea to my sister, Catherine, and brother-in-law, Eric. It's a joint submission to the contest, really.
I am proud to reveal the family fun game to solve all your baby-naming woes. How can a child with a name like Liz or Hannah or Rose or Bess ever be truly unique?! How can you expect little Spencer or little Jordan to develop into an independently-thinking individual when others share his name?! The only chance for our children to be individuals is for them to have one-of-a-kind names. Duh.
The game is simple... it contains two multi-sided dice, much like the one below.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
What's Your Name?
Please click on the link to play. Best if listened to with headphones or decent speakers.
What's Your Name?
What's Your Name?
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