Flash Fiction and Writing Prompts
I was thinking one idea which may work on the forum is that of flash fiction, which is really short pieces. How about a maximum of 200 words. Is this a workable limit? Maybe any less would not give enough scope.
Also, sometimes I find writing prompts get me going. So, I do have a couple of books of prompts. So, I will give a few from, 'The Pocket Muse', by Monica Wood:
'Write about the worst visitor who ever darkened your door.'
'Write a scene in which a pair of shoes figures prominently.'
'Write a sex scene and make it funny'.
'Fill in the blank. Seven days ago, .............Now, nobody will talk to me.'
So, any thoughts on flash fiction? Do you want to have a go at it or do you have any prompts? I will contribute to writing flash fiction as well, but I am interested to see how a flash fiction thread may work here as one of the ways in which creative writing can be part of the forum in addition to competitions etc and also about the fun of sharing writing.
Also, sometimes I find writing prompts get me going. So, I do have a couple of books of prompts. So, I will give a few from, 'The Pocket Muse', by Monica Wood:
'Write about the worst visitor who ever darkened your door.'
'Write a scene in which a pair of shoes figures prominently.'
'Write a sex scene and make it funny'.
'Fill in the blank. Seven days ago, .............Now, nobody will talk to me.'
So, any thoughts on flash fiction? Do you want to have a go at it or do you have any prompts? I will contribute to writing flash fiction as well, but I am interested to see how a flash fiction thread may work here as one of the ways in which creative writing can be part of the forum in addition to competitions etc and also about the fun of sharing writing.
Comments (97)
As he straddled the rails he he peered down the line, parallel rusted lines occluded by weeds and the autumn foliage of the encroaching woods, terminating in a vanishing point of Peterson's tunnel. He imagined a distant sound, of the rhythmic metal of clockwork wheels, clicky clacking. He could hear the blasts of the train horn as it barreled out of tunnel's mouth through the weed choked tracks toward him. How the fuck do I know what I want? he thought as the train closed the distance.
There was a blinding flash and a loud crack followed by a pall of absolute quiet. Ray lay on his side, staring at his own face, contorted in inanimate horror and disfigured by the shock of collision. Never dead and always dead, he sighed. Tears welled up in his eyes as he kissed himself on his cheek.
Ray dragged his lifeless body home and put the kettle on.
"Whadaya say, sailor?" she muttered lazily.
"Uh, I don't think so, my head isn't in the right place for it."
"I can take care of ya, lov."
"No, you don't understand, I was just hit by a train and my head is literally in the wrong place."
With a few soft groans, she pushed herself up from the curb and took a good look at him.
"Blimey, you are fucked up. I've worked with worse. I'll be gentle with ya."
Before he could say anything she started unzipping his pants. Her painted smile began to fade once she realized that she couldn't find what she was looking for.
"I think it's somewhere around 42nd Street, at least that's around where I noticed it was missing, and it's near the train tracks," he said apologetically.
"Fiddlesticks! I gotta have somethin' to work with."
"Yeah, well, I told you!"
"Just pay me and be off with ya, ya peckerless bastard."
"I had some change... also somewhere around 42nd Street, I'm afraid," he said while backing away. Heading home, Ray thought to himself that all he needs is a good spot of tea and he'll be right as rain.
It started raining.
The gray dimness of the cloud smothered autumnal land, dripping from every edge, was in this moment too much to bear and Ray steered in direction of an old haunt, a pub called The Jolly Taxpayer.
On entry the shift in atmosphere gave him slight relief. The tremendous warmth and yellow light, furnished by a roaring natural fire, the tinkling of glasses. A potted palm in a lovely glazed pot. The average man or woman could find relief in the timeless power of drink to dull pain and drown out the toil of their work-a-day lives but not Ray. To drink alcohol was to induce a short-lived vertigo followed by twenty-four hours of nausea and grim thoughts. There was Jimmy too, behind the bar.
"Hey Ray, you look a bit down and wet, but I know what will cheer your up."
"The memory the sunniest of English Summers," sad Ray.
"Yes, and a hot tea as red as the River Dart."
Quoting Jack Cummins
Quoting Jack Cummins
Exactly 200 words, one sentence aside from "Now, nobody will talk to me":
Seven days ago, towards the end of my time in Menton—a vastly more charming town than the famous destination that lies barely five kilometres along the coast, the monstrous Monaco—I was sitting down to eat the most sumptuous feast of many such indulgences that I'd enjoyed over the preceding weeks, which was laid out on a long table dominated by a round platter of ratatouille measuring (I measured it) one metre in diameter and encircled like a vegetal Saturn by a ring of Menton lemons, when I heard a terrible squeal cut short by a splash, indicating that some sentient creature had fallen into the swimming pool behind me, and while I did feel a certain social pressure to turn and look, on account of the general hullabaloo, and to rush along with everyone else to the aid of whatever wet thing was presently in need of a saviour, I found it impossible to leave the pork chop whose succulent meat I had just begun to tear from the bone, and sat there eating blissfully until the other guests returned to the table fussing over a moist piglet called Tony and staring at me with reproach. Now, nobody will talk to me.
Ray turned to see a woman wrapped in a toga standing in front of the stage. She waited patiently until the bar quieted down. Once it was quiet she began speaking.
“Prometheus Bound, translation by Larry.” A man sitting at the bar waved awkwardly.
“Act one, scene one,” she continued, and then backed away.
Two masked figures stood on the stage, both also wrapped in togas. One wore a Nixon mask. The other figure had an Iron Man mask.
Iron Man: “To this world’s-end place we have come, this dilapidated suburb, this place of concrete and hollow echos, to pin thee down in atonement for the sin of shoeing mankind. Being now fleet of foot they have escaped the terrible fate that our lord Zeus had laid out.”
Nixon: “Woe, woe is me!”
Chorus: “Fear not, friend!”
Nixon: “See me tormented by the gods, a god! Racked, I shall suffer. I found and stole the cordwainer's craft and bestowed it to mortals, so that they may be sure of foot and swift, swift as the wind, light as the breeze, and free, free at last.”
The two figures on stage bowed to their audience and the semi-enthusiastic applause that emanated from it.
"This is England! For Christ's sake man, everyone ought to know their first year facts. A cordwainer makes new shoes from fancy leather for the trim and prim as opposed to cobblers, who fix shoes for the bourgeoisie of a long yesterday. They still have em in the posher boroughs of London. " The words came from a red faced bearded pensioner whose slacks were under the ripcord strain of an immense pot belly.
Ray looked down at his trainers and envisioned them alight with a primal fire as he was running in a race. Running for my life. The old gods were behind him but not in the manner of speaking giving moral support. They were trying to catch up with Ray to do something terrible. There beside him, keeping pace, was man shaped thing that looked like a running piece of stick jerky with arrows stuck in its back. Otzi the Iceman in running shoes. The mummified runner gave what looked to be a thumbs up and an involuntary smile. A glimpse back and Ray caught site of an unmistakable giant with the head of a crocodile, Sobek, thighs pulsing with ferocity at full sprint.
"What you think of flash play?" Jimmy snapped Ray out of his reverie.
"The shortest play I've ever seen. It makes the old Greek plays more palatable I guess. Why spend hours with the drama when you can have it done in under a minute. It could of use more chorus though and some fire."
"Ha, now hear that boys! Ray says more chorus. As for fire, can't risk burning this place down until I really need the insurance money."
"Eh, tell him to piss off. We don't take commentary from a peckerless twat."
Sorry, don't want to hijack your thread, so I'll stop here for others to give a try. Ray is pretty dull anyway.
200 words is a bit too limiting in my opinion. Fun thread though. :up:
Seven days ago, at Lady Chesterton's soirée, Maggie Penrose singled me out in the circle of men surrounding her, fixing me with a stern look.
"Will you please stop staring at my breasts," she said, with exaggerated indignation.
"I wasn't!"
It was the best I could come up with. My wit is sharp, but it's slow—I guess that means it's not sharp.
"An occasional brief glance is acceptable, just so you know."
A show business natural, she spun around and strode off towards the bar, swinging her hips. I half-expected my cohorts to burst into applause, but they just drifted off laughing.
Since my phone was confiscated, I've had time to think. I shouldn't have got upset. Maggie chose me as a target either randomly or because she was flirting with me at a level too advanced for me to notice. What I am sure of is that my actions over the next hour were intemperate. In fact, I was bang out of order. Property damage is one thing, but running around naked in public and threatening to sexually abuse a pet spaniel is really not on.
Seven days ago, I had friends. Now, nobody will talk to me.
This sounds like a lot of fun. :up:
I am adding a new prompt from the book which I referred to earlier:
'Today's Horoscope
Somebody close to you will tell you a secret..'
I hope to find time later today to have a go at writing a piece of flash fiction. Of course, it doesn't necessarily take that long or have to be polished. My strange issue is that while I write philosophy entries in my room, I have to go to somewhere else, mainly cafes, to be able to experiment with fiction at all. It seems as if it comes from a different place in the mind completely.
The Dark Cloud
Adam and I were sitting in 'The World's End' pub in Camden. I was sipping mine while he was swigging his back furiously. His long black, curly hair was matted, unwashed.
'What's the matter?' I asked.
'You wouldn't want to know.'
'I do.'
'You must promise not to tell anyone, not even Ray'.
'Okay', I nodded.
He began,
'For weeks I have been worried by a flashback. I think that I stabbed an old lady in the park while I was stoned on skunk weed.
I was stunned. I said, 'It's probably your mind playing tricks on you.'
'I think that it really happened', he trembled.
'Try not to worry. Get some sleep and, maybe, you have been drinking too much,'
'Do you think that I should go to a police station and confess?'
'Perhaps, you could go to the doctors'.
'I could go and speak to a priest. Anyway, I have to go now because I am due to meet Wendy', and he left.
Two days later, I got a call to say that Adam was dead. He had thrown himself in the river'. I am in a terrible state with a dark cloud of the promise to keep a secret.
He looked up a Chinese restaurant on his phone. The nearest place was called China Burger, only a few blocks away on the corner of Chow and Maine.
Walking to China Burger, Ray couldn’t help mentally berating himself for his racist faux pas. I’m not a racist, I’m an idiot. Why do I say things like that in the wrong company? Stupid stupid stupid! In order to help feel better about himself he decided to tip extra large at China Burger.
China Burger turned out to be a food truck, and it was closed. Karma, gotta be karma, he thought to himself. The window where you order was closed but there was a small basket on the counter with a FREE sign on it. There was one fortune cookie left in the basket. “Me-so lucky,” Ray said aloud. He grabbed it, tore open the plastic wrapper, and squeezed the cookie until it released that familiar and satisfying CRACK.
The fortune read 'Somebody close to you will tell you a secret.'
Children's book: Raymond the Sad Hamster
Great idea, Jack. Just saw this. I'm gonna get involved soon. :party:
No, I don’t. If I had I probly would of killed them by now. I mean that literal. I know you probly don’t believe me but I done a lot of things, god’s truth. You wouldn’t know it by how I look ‘cos I don’t look nothin’ special. My mom said the only thing special ‘bout me was my nose and that ‘aint no great shakes really. She said it was Roman, whatever that means. Seems like bein’ Roman musta been a big deal when she was growin’ up. I could care less but I din’t say nothin’ case I’d hurt her feelings. ‘Course she ‘aint got no feelings now ‘cos she’s dead. And I don’t neither. This place don’t ‘xactly help none. Anyhow, you and me gonna be sharin’ this same cage for quite a while, I reckon, so you is the only one close enough to tell any damn thing to and I'm gonna tell you this, so listen: I piss my bed at night and its gonna smell in here and I don’t give a fuck and if I hear one word ‘bout it from you, it’ll be the last word you ever speak. Good night.
Warning: gutter humour follows.
There's Raymond. He's a hamster and he's sad. Richard is Raymond's owner and he's happy. But why is Raymond sad? Have you ever seen such a sad hamster before? Richard gives Raymond lots of food. Richard gives Raymond lots of water. Raymond lives in a shiny new cage and has a big wheel to run around in. Raymond is a lucky hamster, isn’t he? But he is still sad. What can Richard do? Look, Richard is taking his hamster from the cage. They're going to play! Watch as Richard gives Raymond a great big hug. Richard loves Raymond. Look at Richard kiss Raymond on his chubby little cheeks! Richard really loves his hamster. Oh, why is Richard taking his pants off his and where is he trying to put Raymond? Oh dear, I’m not sure Raymond wants to play up there. Richard looks happy but his hamster still looks sad. In he goes! Maybe when he comes out, he’ll be happy again??
Enjoyed this. Neat, well written, self contained. :cool:
Quoting jamalrob
:lol:
I enjoyed this :clap: though I thought the spaniel was a bit random. Or maybe bothering spaniels is a thing in Scotland/Russia?
Seven days ago, to think, just seven short days! I was the very life and soul of the party. There wasn’t a social event in Hampstead I wasn’t invited to. Top of the list, top of the list, I say! My humour adored, my wit coveted, my very presence the essence of the thing! Humility prevents me from going go so far as to say I was the thing, but I have heard it said, I have heard whispered: “A soiree without Reg is like a soufflé without eggs.” Unthinkable. Speaking of eggs, well, yes, I was a little drunk, I’ll grant you that, and perhaps I got somewhat carried away, but in order to properly impersonate a chicken, one must surely replicate the action most definitive of its existence, resonant with the old conundrum. What are chickens for after all? And after such painful preparations, was I wrong to expect some appreciation rather than the deathly silence that followed when I removed my pants and while squawking loudly produced the most pristine and perfect… Oh, never mind. It’s useless. Seven long days. I must admit for once I took things too far and now nobody will talk to me!
They’d cost a pretty penny. British leather flown in from London, the fella said, where they make the best. Well, after a fine walk home in my new shoes, I’d just got meself into me slippers when there was a knock at the door. It was Mrs McGillicuddy and didn’t she have a fearful look on her face. —Paudie, she said. —What is it, Mary? I said. —Well will ya come out now and see for yourself, Paudie. —See what, Mary? —Didn’t I just tell you, Paudie, stop your bleating and come out into the garden. Well, on with the new shoes again, and out I went and Mary’s goat was there and wasn’t it chewing away on me clothes. —I can’t get him out, Mary said, you do it for me, will ya? I suppose I’ll have to, I said. Well, I went for him but the cheeky fecker turned and butted me and arse over tit I went, feet to the heavens. The next I heard from Mary was —Oh, Jaysus, and I saw my big toe where I shouldn’t have seen it at all and wasn’t the happiest goat in Kerry chewing on the finest London leather!
I am pleased to see that this thread is growing well with people to write short pieces.
So, for you and others who are interested here are a couple of other prompts from the same book:
'Write about your earliest superstition'.
'A character arrives at work to find her chair missing. What happened to it?'
(I do have a few other books of prompts, but actually inventing prompts can be fun and interesting too. So, I hope that people continue writing flash fiction and experiment with creating other prompts to get others writing.)
Yes, this is great, thanks, Jack!
Raymond runs into his mother's arms with wet cheeks and pouty lips.
“Don’t cry, my darlin’, don’t cry,” she tells him softly, comfortingly. “Oh my sweet child, what happened to upset you so?”
Between spasming sobs Raymond manages to say, “It was them big boys. They snuck up from behind and… and gave me a wedgie.” A fresh cascade of tears flowed down his blushing cheeks. “It hurt, Mummy, it really hurt. My dangly bits still hurt.”
“My dear boy, that lot will always be out to harm, humiliate, and harass. It’s their nature, pure and simple.”
Raymond's mother takes a few moments to gently rock him in her arms. The sobs quickly subside and Raymond becomes quiet and still. He looks up into her eyes and she says, “Keep your enemies close. That way they can’t sneak up on ya.”
Ray awoke from his reverie, still looking down on the fortune in his hand. I only keep enemies close, he thought, so if anyone tells me a secret it must be part of some scheme to trick me. Bloody schemers, they won’t be foolin’ me, not by a Mablethorpe mile.
Jesays Christi, Mary and Joseph, I feel like we've opened up a portal to a level of hell all about gutter humor.
@Praxis you're so vicious to the Rays of the world.
:lol:
Not exactly what I had in mind.
Yeah it's the chimpanzees all over again.
I am laughing hard at the thought of my son having to go to church naked. He would suffer a mortification even greater than that of most boys of his age in the same circumstance, if I know him well. Exactly what age is he? Well, let's think. What age was he on his last birthday? I remember a tenth birthday party, but I'm not sure that was his, and in any case I think that was years ago. I do remember that the boy had red hair. Maybe my son had red hair when he was ten, but it seems unlikely, unless he still has red hair now.
I can't be sure about the past, or even, it seems, the present, but I have the future firmly in hand. I need to get away from it all, to get away from his endless chatter, to shut myself off, or rather, to shut off the world. I've locked the door of this room, this windowless room equipped with only a bed, a sink with a cold water tap, some buckets, enough canned herring and pickled beetroot for one week or maybe two or three, an old wooden footstool to serve as a table, a sheaf of foolscap, a Parker pen, a pack of cards, and a lightbulb forever swinging in a draught of unknown origin. The draught is an irritating intrusion of the world, but I can live with it. I don't pretend to have sealed myself off hermetically. The main thing is that now, I'll be able to find some peace, and neither my son nor anyone else will bother me with their questions. Now, nobody will talk to me.
In your piece of flash fiction make your story using all the following words somewhere:
policeman
dictionary
helpless
dreamt
echoes
purple
scissors
cake
tree
I won't write in response because I would be in an advantage having chosen the words. (But, if anyone thinks that I should have a go rather
than not do it, I am willing to write a piece too.)
Go on, have a go.
Okay, I am going out so I will stop somewhere and have a try, while out.
We were beside the pond on a windy school trip to the Cotswolds wildlife park. It was June but I wished I had my parka. Ray had his radio, playing, 'Purple Rain'. I was leaning against a tree, looking at my dictionary. Sam came up to me, pushing, but not in a nasty way. I lost my footing, descending into water, up to the knees. Hands pulled me back to land and I was bitten by the trouts. But, I had felt so helpless as I fell.
Mrs Thompson glared at me, as if she was an aggressive policeman, with her hands on her hips,
'I have organised this trip for 5 years and no one has ever fallen into the trout pond before.'
I cringed as I climbed onto the school bus, ashamed and shivering. I pulled my trousers bottoms up and took my shoes and socks off. How I wished that I had a pair of scissors to cut my trousers off at the knees. Not that my mum would been pleased, as the trousers were newish . My legs seemed to be like purple jelly. Suzie gave me a chocolate cake. All I could do on the journey home was think and dream of a hot bath and going to bed. Perhaps, today would remain just as a mirage,as echoes, in my mind's eye.
There are no Rays of the world. Ray is merely a hero that you dreamt up. A fictional character that echoes back and forth, bouncing off train and tree, and helpless to the fate that awaits him. Purple rain may envelop him, or he could be stabbed in the tongue by a concealed pair of scissors while eating a cake. Anything is possible, and everything is permissible. There are no laws and no law enforcers in flash fiction and no man, no policeman, to issue sitations. Is that how you spell sitation? There’s never a dictionary around when you need one.
Ray seems to be emerging as a character in his own right on this thread. Maybe each of us reading on this thread could write 200 words focusing in on 'Ray'. I am not saying that it is necessarily the best way forward but it is possible that the understanding of who Ray is may spark of some interesting ideas...Are we all talking about the same Ray?
Not sure. A review of Ray:
In 1930s Berlin he was Strahl, a zookeeper, who helped Lutz Heck with a cattle backbreeding program to try and recreate the Auroch. Strahl and Heck also pillaged the Warsaw Zoo together during the invasion of Poland, bringing back a mini caravan of animals to Germany. Unfortunately no lions, tigers or bears. The predatory animals were shot before they arrived on the scene.
Ray is anyone and therefore no one, and if hiding voluptuous breasts and the lithe curves of a feminine body beneath his clothes, then she is possibly Rae. I remember now. I saw her one night, in the red-light district of Amsterdam berating a young man with insults, tears in her eyes, a pair of scissors in her hand. I could only presume it was a boyfriend who went astray. Oh how I wished she were mine, titian-haired, riding me raw in the tulip fields.
Quoting Jack Cummins
I chuckled.
Quoting Jack Cummins
I felt this.
:heart:
Quoting Nils Loc
Or...
You know when you see a werewolf riding a motorbike, it’s going to be an interesting day. OK, so it’s a costume. Sue me. We’ve barely reduced the cool factor, baby. Dude is on a Harley. Dude is parting traffic like it’s the Red Sea. Dude is being pursued by the city’s finest. You are halfway across the road, on foot, frozen to the spot, stunned. You may soon become werewolf roadkill. What a way to go! But... Harley werewolf dude slows down. Harley werewolf dude stops right before you, dismounts, walks over to you and removes his werewolf head. And, lo, Harley werewolf dude is not a dude. Behold a titian-haired beauty, a high cheek-boned azure-eyed goddess framed in a background of manic law enforcement running, shouting, kneeling, pointing, aiming,… You are smitten, you are in love, you are hard. Werewolf goddess speaks —Hi, I’m Ray. —Ray? Wait, wait, stop! Turn the viewer off! Now! What the fuck is with 'Ray'? That's a dude's name, morons. The whole point is dude's not a dude. I told you fucks 'Rhea', earth mother, Greek goddess. Ignoramuses! Jesus wept! Now load this fucker up again and this time do it right!
“Hey Siri, find Chinese restaurants near me”
After an annoyingly long wait, Siri finally said, “Chinese Restaurant by Baltimora now playing.”
[i]The time is 8:09
I'm running to the line
The one that takes me down
Down to Chinatown…[/i]
“Hey Siri, why do I bother?”
“Hmm… I don’t have an answer for that. Is there something else I can help you with?”
Not likely, he thought to himself as he started his walk towards Chinatown.
Nearing Chinatown, Ray noticed a man standing precariously on the guard rail of a bridge. A jumper, he assumed. Ray was not a ‘rescuey’ kinda guy, but it was on the way so he proceeded across the bridge. As he got closer he recognized the man, it was Adam.
“Adam, wait!”, he yelled, and cautiously approached where Adam stood.
“I’m a murderer, I stabbed an old lady in the park!” Adam exclaimed.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you couldn’t swat a fly. You were probably just too stoned and imagined it.”
“I did, I know I did.”
“Hold on, I’ll google it and show you,” Ray said while getting out his phone. “Hey Siri, find stabbings near me.”
Siri immediately displayed a list of news headlines, all of which were recent and variations of ‘Madman Stabs Elderly Woman in Park’.
Shit!, Ray thought, but knowing that Adam couldn’t read the screen from the distance, he held up his phone and said, “See, there’s nothing. Now get down from there you silly fool.”
Adam looked shaky so Ray moved to assist but tripped on the curb and bumped Adam’s leg. It was just enough to tip him backwards. For a moment, time slowed to a crawl.
“RRRRrrrrrraaaaaaayyyyyyyyy!!!!!”
“AAAAaaaadddddaaaaaammmm!!!!!”
Time returned to normal and Adam plunged to his death. Shocked but wary, Ray quickly scanned the area for witnesses. Not seeing anyone, he counted his blessings and resumed course for Chinatown.
Really like this line. It made me laugh as did a few other lines. (Was that intended?). My only constructive criticism is that the ending is a bit ho hum. I reckon with stories this short, a bit of a twist or some such jazziness at the end really helps to set them off.
I do struggle with endings, especially to short pieces, because I find it hard to know where to end and how much to leave to the imagination. It is strange really, because I often read novels and feel unsatisfied by the endings. One ridiculous aspect which I have found is that sometimes my stories start or end with the main character being in bed, which probably doesn't work too well for the reader.
I have written lots of short pieces because I used to go to creative writing groups/ workshops. It was not really about a specific word limit but about writing in a time limit of about 10 to 15 minutes. I see such writing as being pieces which could be worked upon in the future in further depth. So, when I started this thread I was thinking partly in that way. However, I am also aware of flash fiction as a genre, so I have opened it also with a view that people may develop short pieces which may work in that way as well.
It would depend. Anything could work in the right context.
Quoting Jack Cummins
It's really been working for me. I hadn't written flash fiction for years and struggled lately to finish longer works but since I saw this thread, I've written quite a bit and find the constraints of the genre very stimulating, so many thanks for the inspiration. :pray:
(E.g. Write ... a story in the comedy genre. It's about a philosopher and should include a desk. Also use the sentence 'You're an idiot.' Bonus prompt: Your character is dying.) :cool:
“Jesus, are you still harping on about that? It was a fantasy. Don’t you get that?”
The tent was filled with needles. Needles that were designed to heal, but in the vast desert that surrounded them they only pricked.
“Go! Leave me alone! And take your disgusting leash with you.”
Here is my attempt for your prompt:
The Dying Philosopher King
I'm crouched down under my desk in the dark. My chosen place to die, my tomb, with books scattered on the floor. Ones by Nietzsche, Camus and some on the idea of life after death. How I wished to write a brilliant book. But I am a failure and have nothing to say worth saying. So, here I am waiting to die, waiting for the pile of tablets to kick in : the handfuls of painkillers, Prozac and a few 'Blue Zues' aphrodisiacs which I bought from a vending machine in the gents.I might as well die with a hard on. I will miss sex but not people, because they can be so nasty. If it were possible I would haunt my enemies and all the people who made fun of me because I am short and spotty. I drink some more wine to digest the tablets. I may go and listen to some Slipknot, Marilyn Manson and My Chemical Romance and lie on my unmade bed and, wait to find out whether there is life after death.
You're half way there with this imho. The writing's fine and there are some good lines but it's still not really a short story for me. It's more of a diary entry that could maybe be part of a short story. One thing that helped me to understand the difference between diaristic recounts of events and short story narratives was looking at the constituent parts of these types of texts. A short story is generally made up of an orientation, then a sequence of events, a climax, and a coda/wrapping up. It's not that easy to define exactly what's what sometimes and very good writers certainly play with, even subvert, this structure very successfully, but in general, we need at least a sequence of events and a climax to make a story. If we only have a sequence of events without any attempt to add suspense or suprise, we don't really have a 'proper' short story in my view. So, again, I personally see potential in what you've written but isn't there a way to add a bit of intrigue? What do you think?
Thanks for your useful feedback and I do see the need to reach a climax. I am aware that in various exercises which I did in creative writing groups that often involves aspects of scenes which probably important for writing stories as opposed to being like diary entries. So, I will definitely try to think about in writing which I do.
I'd be interested to see the results. I think you could come up with a few crackers if you integrate this aspect into your pieces. :party:
"Heeeeelp! Somebody heeelp!"
Smith's blood pressure rose to 200/90 as he gritted his teeth. "I swear this is the end of your career in medicine." This wasn't the first time he'd have to fire a lab tech for playing pranks. Two can play at this game. Smith grabbed a large slab of greasy flesh from the anatomy table and proceeded to open the locker.
As Smith was about to take a swing he stopped on seeing the man's face, his perplexity turning to shock. "You're supposed to be dead."
"Wellelele I'mmm fuckingggg nahhhht, em I? Emmmmm freeeezzin, but i'll bee deead sooon iffya don lemme out!"
The cold man was none other than Adam Gibson, who had been pronounced dead three days ago, apparently by the faulty measures of science, after jumping to his death from the Bridge of Sighs in Camden.
When she arrived at a more open spot on the trail that day something unusual caught her attention. Up on the bridge there was a man standing on the guardrail. A jumper, she assumed. Immediately realizing that she was too far away to do anything she paused, not sure what to do. Also, there was someone near the man on the guardrail, perhaps trying to talk him down. But no, in horror she saw the man who she thought was trying to help suddenly push the jumper off the bridge. She couldn’t believe what she had just witnessed.
The water was shallow for the height the man had fallen but she thought there might still be a chance to save him. He was upstream and headed towards her. She scanned the area and saw an outcropping of rocks and logs along the riverbank where she might possibly be able to pull him to shore if he passed close enough. She quickly moved into position and waited. The river was flowing at a strong pace so she would only have one shot. The man was approaching, face down and apparently unconscious. He would pass within range of her outstretched arm, she could now see, and she was ready to grab him. Only a few seconds… but when it was time to grab something shifted in her mind. Instead of grabbing she reached out and lightly brushed her fingertip along his lifeless body, just like the Northwind grass and Alder leaves of the riverbank caressed her body, and loosened the knots of his twisted mind as he floated away.
Beautiful prose but I wonder what Asian American readers would say or feel about this Kim Chi from Fukiuuto. The pasty Brits can handle a right good bashing. Nothing could induce more of a giggle fit than sounds and place names of the Brits (ex. Cockfoster-on-sea/Penistone/Bitchfield/Ugley). Intriguing that she doesn't jump to rescue instead caresses the floating body like the Northwind grass and the Alder leaves. She's not a 'rescuey' kind of gal I guess, or it's her Wuwei Feng Shui nature. Really love the scene. Makes me want to go hiking along a river, maybe find a bridge too look up at. Some secret in the caress that might have meaning for Adam's resurrection. :monkey:
Crapola, I don’t know how I missed that. Revised. Must have had a subconscious craving for fermented cabbage.
Thanks for the helpful tips and compliment. :cool:
The little pug pawed the ground and jerked backwards against the pull of his leash, to the left then to the right, again, using the tension of the line to draw his collar off. Easy peasy, pork pie squeasy. In that moment Winston was off down the trail, toward the source of a strange urgency, barking as he went.
"Winny, you twat." Carla took nonchalant puff of her spliff and closed her eyes to listen to her tunes as she lost sight of her dog.
[i]Kill your friend
Sadly I find I'm still alive at the end
Did you taste their pain
Spare me the crime until it's time to bend
Feeling out of sort
You pushed me over board[/i]*
The pug cut a line directly down the slope, bouncing at high velocity toward the river's edge and soon arrived at his tracking source, a soggy wet body floating face down near the shore. It was exuding an odor of intoxicating qualities. A rhinal bloom of sustained crescendo, an astringent blood tinge of sour musk, hops, wintergreen and herbal ash, all enveloping the drowned man in vaporous halo. There was a piercing smell half familiar, of violence shrouded in a purple unknown. Glorious sense![/I] Winston thought. [i]This is novel.
_______
*Note: Chelou's Lyrics, Damned Eyes See
[i]The time is half-past eight
It’s getting kinda late
Too late to make it down
Down to Chinatown…[/i]
But Ray did, finally, make it down to Chinatown. Though the faces he passed on the street all wore masks, the almond eyes that stared back at him, and the Chinese writing on the store windows were clear signs that he had arrived at the outskirts of his destination.
Starving and tired from his journey, Ray came upon his first dining opportunity, a place called Golden Dragon. He wanted to go in just to admire the giant golden dragon sculpture in the middle of the dining room that he could partly see from the windows, but the place looked too expensive.
[i]The time is 8:38
I wish I had a date
A date with Clementine
Cuz she really knows how to dine[/i]
The next option on his quest was called Crunchy Tiger, Hidden Eggroll. It looked too cheap and he was afraid of food poisoning so he moved on.
[i]The time is 8:45
That place was such a dive
No dogs in the neighborhood
That too does not look good[/i]
Finally, Ray stood in front of a street vendor with a cart. On the cart there was a sign that read Mother Inlaw’s Kimchi. Ray recalled a recent article he had read about the brain/GI tract connection and how a healthy microbiome can significantly promote creativity. This could be the cure for my writer's block!, he thought to himself.
“You like sample?” asked the vendor.
“Yes, please. I’ll try the hot.”
The Vendor handed Ray a small cup with some very reddish kimchi in it and a small fork.
“Ha-ha-ha-hot!” Ray said with a burning mouth.
“Here, try mild,” offered the vendor while handing him another small cup.
“Ugh, no, that’s too mild.”
“Here, you try medium,” suggested the vendor while handing him another small cup.
“Ah, this is just right!” said Ray with delight.
Ray purchased a large bowl, took a seat on the curb, and proceeded to gobble down the kimchi. The chili warmed him from the inside and he could feel the familiar endorphin rush from eating spicy food. But there was something more, his mind was coming alive with possibilities. His imagination took over. Suddenly there were three very annoyed looking panda bears glaring down at him. Ray was so startled that he got up from the curb and ran away. He never returned to Mother Inlaw’s Kimchi cart, but his writer’s block was cured.
Operator: Emergency. Which service?
Carla: The one for last rights, Anglican, Papist and the one with the turban.
Operator: I'm sorry ma'am but do you require police, ambulance, fire or coast guard?
Carla: Send the ambulance or hearse, my guess.
Operator: Hello, this is the ambulance.
Carla: Hi, erm, there's a bloke drowned in the river down Camden way, on the valley walk. He looked to be snorkeling without a snorkel, if you catch my hook. I've pulled him out but he's dead.
Operator: Can you check if the man is responsive?
Carla: He's cold as my grandmother's dead minge and looks as shite. Hello! Wake up! Echo me you mangy wet git! I've slapped him.
Operator: There is no need to slap him, miss. Can you check to see if he is breathing or has a pulse.
Carla: I ain't kissin this bloke back to life. Throw me ton and a bullseye, he ain't my type. His heart ain't beatin. He's dead.
Operator: Miss, may I have your name? You may be able to save this man's life by performing CPR.
Carla: Names Carla but you can call me Darlin'. Do I got to breath in his mouth or can I just bang on his chest like I've seen them do on the telly.
Operator: If you're sure he has no pulse Darlin' then you can give him chest compressions.
You've got to put your hands on his sternum or breastbone, the middle of his chest, just below his nipples. Stack your hands and give forceful compressions, two per second. I'll begin the count to help you keep the pace.
Carla: Here goes nothin. I need to straddle him. I'm ready.
Operator: Follow my count, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Keep going, starting again. One, two, tree...
Carla: Come back you mangy git! Water is for bathin not breathin. Nine, ten, one, two, buckle my shoe, three, four, shut the door, seven, eight, your way too late, nine ten, I'll try again.
Operator: Ambulance in route. You're doing great Darlin'.
Carla: I know but he's dead cold and stiff to boot.
As a dog lover I especially appreciate the richness and charm of your language in this one.
Did flash fiction suddenly go out of style and we’re the only two out of vogue?
Beats me. The flash fiction of the forum is of the serious, philosophical kind. Maybe there just wasn't enough philosophical content of any depth for others to want to play.
Or maybe I took up too many turns... :chin:
I still want to play, but just haven't been feeling well for a few days, but I will be back with new prompts and I will have a go at more flash fiction later in the week hopefully. In the meantime, I will be glad for you and others to write more, so I hope that you are inspired and I created it to make a thread where people could enjoy writing.
:up:
Flash fiction could play an interesting roll in trying to learn and memorize what otherwise might be quite boring. Feel a bit more comfortable if I was pressured to do CPR after watching Darlin' palpitate a corpse.
Made me think, if someone has water in their lungs should the person be held upside down to drain it out before engaging in CPR. If blood circulates because of CPR but there is no oxygen uptake because of fluid in the lungs, is CPR in such an instance less effective?
Quoting FamilyEducation.com
An interesting comparison between writing and CPR. I have attended training in CPR and don't find it easy. One tutor took me through slowly and showed me how it is getting it altogether in terms of muscle memory. Fortunately, I have never had to use CPR in real life so far, but thinking about CPR applied to writing may be useful, for me at least.
Today's prompt:
the idea of 'muscle memory'
(I will have a go myself if I can find a quiet corner to write while I am out.)
'Write about your earliest superstition.
'Write about an escalating dispute between two normally polite, understanding neighbours. How do they manifest resentment, rage, revenge?'
Blue Mash
I couldn't take it any longer. Since Ray got the sack from the bookshop he had become a complete slob. Every time I went to the kitchen I found my plates grimy and unwashed as well as his. He had given up cleaning and he did not smell too good.
I washed away the remains of his vegetable curry so that I could make a sandwich. But, I wasn't prepared to clean his saucepan of mashed potatoes which had been there for about a week, with blue mould forming. There are limits and it made me feel sick. I squirted washing up liquid into it, trying to disguise it and became more blue.
I knocked on his door. He opened it, naked and with a can of beer in his hand.
'Sorry to bother you, Ray. Could you please clean your saucepan with the mouldy mash.'
'Okay mate, I will do it in ten minutes'. He slammed the door.
The next morning I got up and went to the kitchen to make some coffee. The filthy saucepan was still there. It was too much first thing in the morning. I grabbed the saucepan, went to the bin outside and through it with force. It bounced as it reached the bin, splashing blue mash into my face and all over my favourite 'Metallica' t-shirt.
"You are too self aware. You need to distract yourself with productive, edifying, work. High paid work in a corporate gig is always the cure for everything. You've yet to develop a service oriented persona because you don't work enough." The mandibles were moving but it looked and sounded like the bug was dubbed. "Now tell me about one of your dumb early childhood superstitions."
This therapy session costs a hectares worth of fresh alfalfa. These damn Locusts taking middle class jobs.
Ray remembered mummy running away, proclaiming she would never come back, slamming the door in daddy's face. She always did come back. What a liar. Ray thought the way to protect his mummy from dying out in the wild was to imagine as many ways in which she could die. Reality never coincides with fantasy, therefore to imagine any future was to negate it as a possibility. But Ray worried that he could not imagine all the possible ways in which his mummy would die or find a new husband. Reality always wins by its unpredictable details.
The grasshopper glared over his spectacles at Ray. "You're such an effete nincompoop, Raymond. I don't know how you afford our sessions."
I like the story and the idea of a grasshopper therapist. I think that I could do with such a therapist, so perhaps I should look for one in the garden.
Not so sure about the value of Ray's cutthroat therapist. A real grasshopper might do a better job of teaching Ray how to chill out and stridulate.
I looked for anything that would inspire me to paint it. It could be a vase, a cup, a toy, or a pair of old shoes, whatever. I was open to anything. On the game shelf I noticed a Rubic’s cube. Looking closer I could see that it wasn’t a standard design. Picking it up, it felt light though the texture was like stone. The sides were the standard colors but it was semi-translucent. The most remarkable feature of its design were the small inset faces etched into each square of the cube. The faces were tiny yet had extraordinary lifelike detail.
I learned how to solve a Rubic’s cube when I was a kid. There are three layers that you solve one after the other, with a few different applications of one simple algorithm. Let’s see if I remember, yes, half recalling from mussel memory, the algorithm is to turn the right side layer clockwise once, then turn the top layer clockwise once, then turn the right side layer counterclockwise once, and then the top layer counterclockwise once. Two turns forward, two turns back, is how I used to think of it.
So I started solving the cube. When I finished the first layer the cube started to internally glow with a slow pulse. Cool effect, must be electronic. Solving the second layer the glow got brighter and the pulse more rapid. On the last step of the last layer I repeated the old litany as I completed the cube, “two turns forward, two turns back.” The glow burst from the cube and enveloped me in its blinding light. I woke with a fixed stare and unable to move. I was on a shelf and in front of me, in the chrome reflection of a picture frame, I could see my face set in one of the boxes on the cube. I had ended.
The inspiration was of a more demonic nature.
I like the prompt of being locked in a crystal cube, so will have a go at it a bit later today or tomorrow. It's a pity that a few more people are not involved in the thread, but I guess that can't be helped.
Darian's sense of sight flickered in and out like a dying light fixture - scattershot memories of someone refusing to change the bulb - and he tried to re-adjust his position but found himself nailed to the floor - no, apparently encased in resin like an arachnid freshly added to a collection. Wondered about the mesh net that was used on him, and now newly broiled with rage at the feeling of being trapped, but something ate a corner of his anger and momentarily brought him to a mental standstill. He remembered bringing dad home that night, catching him three times, once almost giving way himself, feeling the weight of dad's skin-and-bones body against his and cursing his own feminine frame. Lurching back to consciousness, he realized what he saw around him was not ocean water, but pure crystalline memory. He began to float.
I am not sure if I am alive or dead. I know that I had too much wine to drink and everything went black. But, this chamber made of amethyst and rose quartz walls is so strange. It is not horrible but my body seems twisted and I am not sure if I still have legs because I can't see or feel them. At least, I can still feel my cock and balls and my slender hands.
Is this a chamber of the afterlife? Looking beyond the gap in the rose quartz wall, I see a rock garden and a trickling waterfall. It can't be hell. There are wierd esoteric looking symbols on the wall. Is this place real? An astral place? But I can't seem to move at all. I am twisted and stuck in this crystal cube. I feel so alone and wish that I had a lover, male or female, or a beautiful inbetweenie.
Though I yelled all night through the open bars no one came to help. When the sun rose I was pierced in the heart with terrible shock. Nothing can explain it and I have come to terms that I'm either having a very long nightmare or I'm dead.
Looking through the bars of this tiny mausoleum there was naught else but an empty meadow of shaggy grasses. Auf Wiedersehen Cemetary, my place of work for 13 years had disappeared completely. I called out again and again but no one heard my cries. Something did appear on the horizon later that day which I thought to be a horse at first. I called out to it. As it approached me with tame docility, slowly, its features became more apparent. It had no eyes. The worn, fetid sockets were empty. A chewed looking tongue, grey and dry, hung outside of its shrunken lips. It nuzzled the bars but I kept back, nauseated by disgust.
Then it gave a horrible shriek of a neigh, followed by a humming. The humming was coming from behind me, muffled by stone of Anatol's sarcophagus. It was Schiller's Ode to Joy riding the melody of Beethoven's genius. I could hear the words.
[i]Joy, beautiful spark of Divinity,
Daughter of Elysium,
We enter, drunk with fire,
Heavenly one, thy sanctuary![/i]
Then a shifting of stone on stone, the sarcophagus lid slid open and whatever it was in that tomb sat up, singing with newfound clarity.
[i]Thy magic binds again
What custom strictly divided;
All people become brothers,
Where thy gentle wing abides.[/i]
This rotting thing saw me without eyes, teeth glistening between leather thin lips, and spoke.
"Not many of the living get to see a corpse horse like Molly." The thing chuckled. "Do not be afraid. My name is Anatol Wallich, as you might have guessed. I've seen your good works over the years and have decided to offer you employment. It will be in your interest, mind you, to accept my offer."
"Yes sir, whatever you say sir" I said, all the while driving my knuckles into the stone floor. "But why can't I wake up!?"
"Because, my dear, dear friend. You are not asleep."
Your post above is rather surreal.
I have to weigh this aesthetic against the need for gas. The Impala I stole in Colorado has a gauge that moves if you watch it.
I did not pick up the hitchhiker who is an exact copy of me from two decades past. The nightmares were working. I would get to San Diego.
I refueled in a typical place. It was so much like the others that I became suspicious. How is my experience so perfectly replicated across space and time?
The other customers in the snack store were perfect mirrors of my uncertainty. Peripheral vision captured what the security cameras could not.
Back on the road, each song on the radio commented upon my condition. The nebulous cloud of each next town was a bright remembrance of what I would soon forget.
It was then that I realized I had a passenger. Was she in the car when I stole it? Did I bring her with me?
The mile markers counted themselves down. I introduced myself to her.
Interesting. I liked how it felt like the author was seeing his own guilt for stealing a car at every turn...then it turned surreal with the realization that he had a passenger all along, which kind of threw me a bit. Then again, maybe it's just a case of me getting a taste of my own medicine. :lol:
The two-hundred-word count sort of let me pull a fast one. A four-hundred- word count would have a lot of explaining to do.
Her plan was executed on the night of the fifth-hundred and twentieth in her exhausted series of poetic delays with a dagger's flash. The full moon lit up the desert dunes while the king gave his last gasp. Blood pooled on the floor.
Scheharazade flung herself off the balcony after eating a poisoned plum. She had applied her father's perennial wisdom until the end. One can never be too prepared.
I like the story and am glad that the thread has not faded away completely. I may contribute to it at some point in the next few days...
One day when O was 16 years old his uncle came to visit the family. He came from the old country, wherever that was. His accent was hard to pin down, partly because he was extremely economical with his words, and also because O had thus far led a sheltered life and had not been exposed to the various ways that foreigners spoke, at least not firsthand, but he could make out that it was roughly Eastern European. His uncle was severe in both appearance and manner, never laughed or even smiled, and bit his fingernails whenever he was nervous, and he was always nervous.
O’s uncle corned him one day, grabbing him by the arm and saying, “Come with me, I have something to show you,” and led him to the attic. Once there, among the dusty useless objects that for some reason had never been piled on to the curb on a trash day, his uncle showed him an old trunk and ordered him to open it.
“It’s locked.”
“Oh,” he replied, and after groping his pockets for a few seconds, finally produced a tarnished old skeleton key and handed it to O.
O opened the trunk. It was full of old puppets of various sizes and designs, some of which were quite elaborate, made with colorful fine fabrics and jewels. Others were simple wooden carvings. All were so finely crafted and lifelike that you half expected them to rise from the trunk of their own accord and go on about their business.
“Your father never told you that you come from an unbroken line of Furenpupa that dates back centuries before civilization began,” his uncle told him in a most serious tone.
Perplexed, O asked, “Furenpupa?”
“Puppeteers.”
O burst out laughing. “My father is really a puppeteer?”
“No, he doesn’t have the gift. But you have it,” his uncle replied. “Do you know what gives men power over other men?” Before O could reply his uncle went on to say, “Stories! Narratives that bind men, enslave them, lead them to bitter purpose and war. We, the Furenpupa, fight fire with fire! We tell stories that disrupt and weaken the corrupt bonds that bind men to their oppressors and their terrible purposes.”
O’s uncle looked him squarely in the face and asked, “Are you ready to fulfill your destiny and join your ancestors in this noblest of callings?
O replied with as much conviction as he could muster, “I wanna do it.”
Good story, and I was glad to see this thread appear. I do wish to continue to contribute to it..
'The Bible is a magical repository for story ideas. Every story is a metaphor with limitless possibilities for retelling.
Place Lot's wife at a school board meeting in Kansas.
Tempt Adam with a Corvette rather than an apple.
Turn Job into a bus driver and give him the test even God couldn't dream up.'
So, maybe a few people may experiment with flash fiction. When I wrote the thread I said in up to 200 words, I think. Perhaps, that was too stingy to give much scope, so perhaps 500 words or less gives a bit more scope. What do you think? I may have a go at the prompt I just added tomorrow.
MURDER ON THE TRAIN(500 words)
Imagine that you are on a train station when a murder takes place. Expand on this scenario by writing a story of 500 words or fewer.
RADCASTLE STATION MURDER
She did not have a clue what time it was when she got on the last bus home. A bad day at the office and drinking in a 'Weatherspoons' pub until closing time. Asking for trouble. She listened to her mum on the phone who was worried about the cat being ill. She peered out of the window, not knowing where she was. When the bus reached its final destination she realised she was out in the country, lost in the night.
She wandered along dark roads of wasteland, knowing that she needed to be at work tomorrow morning. Her hands and feet were freezing and she longed for her bed. Despite the cold, she lay down on the bumpy grass verge. But, adrenaline was surging through her and she got up again and continued walking. At last, she saw signs of civilisation, a railway station.
She sat down on the seat and she thought she might be able to get a train to get to work in the morning. She saw the shadow of a man walking by a sign saying 'Radcastle Station'. Another figure emerged from the shadows. The two men were facing one another, glaring with fists raised. They were hitting one another, punches after punches, and one collapsed. She thought he was dead. She ran from the scene afraid for her own safety as the killer was lurking. She tried to use her phone to ring for an ambulance or the police but the phone would not come on as it needed charging. She wandered around all night and she was so tired.
In the early morning, she found a bus stop and managed to find a connection to another bus to where she lived. She phoned in sick, and when she told friends about the probable murder at Radcastle Station no one knew of it. She googled it and found nothing. She never heard of any murder during that night and she still wonders where she was exactly on that cold, dark night.
FOUR SEASONS
'Structure a story based on the four seasons: winter, spring, summer, and fall.'
PRISM LIGHT, WHITE HOT..
' Write a stream of consciousness without stopping, for three minutes, using the quote below as an initial spark for inspiration.
" Let the world burn through you. Throw the prism light, white hot, on paper"._ Ray Bradbury, " Zen in the Art of Writing" (1990).'
I like the idea of wondering if the bee is winking at you. I try to escape bees because I got stung twice on the arm. I am glad you have contributed to the thread, and people may not need prompts because they may have their own ideas.
Cookie Monster: Hear ye, hear ye, the Kansas City school board meeting will now come to order.
Audience: Yay, yay, yippee!
Kermit: We've called this special session due to public concerns over critical race theory being taught in our districts. We will begin by opening the floor to your concerns and questions.
SFX: Awkward silence.
Kermit: Mam? You may begin.
Karen: My name is Karen lot –
Cookie Monster: Lot of cookies?!
Karen: Uh, no. As I was saying, I've lived in Kansas City my whole life and I ain't seen no racism here. I don't see color and I tought my sweet boy Bobby not to see color. I don't want my innocent child to be taught racism. CRT is white racism, pure and simple. Am I right, folks?
Audience: You're right! You're right! You're very far right!
Kermit: What color am I, Mrs. Lot?
Karen: Green
Kermit: What color is Cookie Monster?
Karen: Blue
Kermit: So you can see color.
SFX: Music starts playing.
Kermit: It's not easy bein' green
Having to spend each day at a disadvantage
When I think it could be nicer bein' white or straight or a man
Or something much more privileged like that
It's not easy bein' green
It seems you blend in with so many other ordinary things
And people tend to pass you over
Cause you're not privileged in any way
On a job interview or applying for a loan
But green is the color of spring
And green can be cool and friendly like
And green can be big like an ocean
Or important like a mountain or tall like a tree
When green is all there is to be
It could make you wonder why
But why wonder, why wonder?
I am green and it'll do fine, it's beautiful
And I think it's what I want to be
Audience: Yay, yay, yippee!
“This show should only be performed on airplanes, because those seats are equipped with airsick bags.”
“The kid in front of me spent most of the show playing Angry Birds on his phone. I too was angry, but I doubt that I could have catapulted a bird to take down the show because the poor creature would surely fly away in horror before striking.”
Another reviewer simply wrote, “The worst three and a half minutes of my life.”
The reviews were discouraging but worse was the fear that he had failed to further the aims of the Furenpupa and disrupt the oppressive power structures within his culture. I must do better! he thought to himself.
Now that's what I call wit.
I walked past some senior citizens im the park, playing chess. They were exchanging words, "Fuck you!" "Fuck you too!" I saw a newspaper stand, looked at the headlines, "FUCK YOU!, FUCK ALL OF YOU!" That's some news. I had to tell my friend. I whipped my phone out, then scrolled through my contacts, Fuck you 1, Fuck you 2, Fuck you 3, that's my friend, Fuck you 3. I dialled his number. He answered. "Hey Fuck you 3, FUCK YOU! FUCK ALL OF YOU!" I screamed, unable to contain my excitement. "Fuck you too!" came the reply.
Ominous silence.
Thoughtful silence.
Unbroken silence.
Peaceful silence.
Deafening silence.
Respectful silence.
"I've dreamt of echoes; I've dreamt of using scissors cutting the pages of purple dictionary made with the bark of tree bark cake," said the helpless policeman in the first session of compulsory empowerment and racial relations psychological therapy.
The psychology counsellor of the district was both appalled and enticed by the beautifully deranged mind of this officer.
"Why do you... how was your relationship with your mother?" Finally the psychologist was able to blurt out.
"Because I am a policeman, whilethewhile I am a woman. I have XX chromosomes circulating in every pore of my body," replied the policeman.
"In that case... take this drug (and the psychologist scribbled something on a prescription pad) twice a day each morning, and come back in two weeks and tell me how you feel."
"Oh, that's easy," said the policeman, "I don't have to come back only in order to tell you how I feel. I feel like having a donut, beating some unsuspecting black person senseless, and then having another donut."
Now it was the psychologist who was unsure of herself. "Okay, hey, well, never mind. Are you in effect a man who had a complete chromosome transplant, or a real woman, who likes to beat up unsuspecting Black people, sandwiched between two donuts?"
"The latter," answered the policeman.
The psychologist now found herself on firm ground again, so to speak. Psychologically firm grounds.
"In that case, Julia, my dear daughter, turn in your badge and your service revolver, and breastfeed yourself for two weeks, then come back and see me. The secretary will give you an appointment. NEXT!!!"