In the comments, use the 10 random words below to create a cohesive, creative short story tying all the words together. And remember: after you finish, highlight your words and click the bold button to make them stand out and help you determine if you forgot any words (if you’ve missed some challenges, go back and try those too).
- Red wine
- Hurricane
- Scary Monsters
- Photograph
- Drama
- Prophylactic
- Morgue
- Hysterical
- Wheelchair
- Stain
NOTE: Don’t copy and paste from MS Word. Use a program like notepad that removes formatting or just type in the comment field itself. Also, finish your submission, THEN bold the words. Thanks.
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The setup was perfect. A glass of red wine sat on the tablecloth near a lit candle, its flame flickering romantically. The room was warm and comfortable. The photograph on the wall was soothing.
There was no drama here. No scary monsters. No stain of death, no morgue.
Perfect. Just perfect.
The plan was that she would arrive, hopeful and nervous, excited at being invited to his home for dinner. She’d have made sure her makeup was perfect, her hair just right, her clothes revealing just enough to make him want more. Her face would be flushed with a hurricane of anticipation – a date with James.
He didn’t care.
The dinner invitation was just a prophylactic cover up. No accidents here. He’d wine her, dine her and then as he fed her the last strawberry from desert, he’d suggest a walk. Down by the pier, perhaps, where the water and stars would be romantic.
Then he’d shoot her. What an unfortunate accident – the young, lovely couple attacked, and the thugs ran away. He’d plead the police, the ambulance drivers for a wheelchair, begging them as if he was in denial, hysterical with grief.
Yes, it was perfect. Like a lamb to a slaughter.
Wow. James is getting a few shades darker with this one. I’ll say it again, why don’t you have a fiction book out yet? This James character should be in it!
Stop tempting me!
Stop showing us leg!!!
*flash!*
After you’re done flashing, write that book!
I should write one, pay per chapter style.
…where’s my credit card…oh there it is… okay, I’m ready!
“I’ll say it again, why don’t you have a fiction book out yet?”
Hold up! Back the truck up! He doesn’t have a book out? Damn… dude…. get this stuff put together.
“He’d wine her, dine her and then as he fed her the last strawberry from desert, he’d suggest a walk. Down by the pier, perhaps, where the water and stars would be romantic. Then he’d shoot her.”
C’mon, tell me you wouldn’t want to read the rest of the book to find out what happened!
“Remember Hurricane Katrina?
No, not the storm, the hysterical windbag I used to date.
The drama-queen who got wasted out of her gourd on red wine at Jerry’s party and claimed she lost her virginity to scary monsters at summer camp.
That untrusting bitch that always counted my rubbers and made me call you up that one day to look in your bathroom trashcan for that broken prophylactic I threw away at your party while having sex with her on your toilet (which she was too drunk to remember)? I think I even showed you a photograph I took of that incident once, didn’t I?
She’s the one I told you about whose father is the pill addict in the wheelchair who always wore the same stained Grateful Dead shirt, and whose mother worked at the morgue on the south side of town and talked about her “clients” all the time.
Yeah, that one. What a crazy bitch, huh!
She just sent me a friend request on Facebook.
Yeah, I accepted it… she was hot!”
wow, Shane, you need a new circle of friends!:) funny write.
Good thing this stuff is fiction, huh!!!
I think I know her! Funny stuff
That is really good. I am really behind on my writing challenges. I better get to work.
Thanks. We know you are behind. We’re taking tabs! Better get to it.
Ha! That’s funny
Too much red wine again.
My head is splitting and senses are spinning. I’m litter in a hurricane.
The scary monsters from my yesterday are worming their way into my today. Their fangs are showing and there are drops of blood dangling from their tips.
No photograph can capture the horror or drama of this daily nightmare. There is no emotional prophylactic to dull its conception.
I thought I had left these demons in my mind’s morgue. But I did not.
Hysterical really, I traded an annual MVP award for a wheelchair. Like the black Ford Mustang, I didn’t see the liquid curse coming until it was too late.
The stain of my accident is permanent. I must not let myself drown while I try to wash it away.
“demons in my mind’s morgue” Another one to put into the swipe file. I really liked this one.
Hi Sean, very convincingly morose. A real doggy-downer story….glad writerdad today was about the valentine’s dance!
If I had a prophylactic to slip across my brain
It would be fantastic, to speak and leave no stain.
The scary monsters that leak out sometimes
end up causing major drama.
The kind that make some folks hysterical
and running to their mama!
The hurricane that fuels my thoughts is like a fine red wine.
If you’re not real careful, it can wheelchair out of time!
If I could have a verbal photograph to view before I speak
I would be able to avoid apologizing for a week!
The morgue for wounded egos caused by careless words dispensed
is way too large to be conceived of and there is no recompense.
So best we think before we speak no matter what we want to say
sparing people’s feelings sometimes is the better way.
Margaret, that was fantastic. You keep topping yourself each challenge.
“it can wheelchair out of time” You Platt’s are some fantastic word-twister-metaphor-melder folks!!!!
ooooo, I like this one too.
aw, shucks! Thanks, guys.
“If I had a prophylactic to slip across my brainIt would be fantastic, to speak and leave no stain.”
This is my FAVORITE line ever!!!
GREAT!!!
The microphone was silenced; the cops dropped everything, including the contraband. Then came the dramatic announcement: Challenge 17 is ready!
Almost hysterical, she dropped her red wine leaving a stain on both the wheelchair and the photograph of scary monsters.
The room deadened to a morgue-like silence.
The silenced morphed into a hurricane of scribbling; there was no prophylactic against this sort of creative conception.
Anne, I’m loving what you do with these short gems.
Great way to use “drama” in a challenge. I see this technique is catching on. Isn’t that something?!!! I love how this concept is evolving.
I’m wondering if we/you/us could somehow collect these for a book… I know, rights and all, but darn I love what I’m seeing develop here… I’m actually beginning to think it’s important! If I can help please let me know.
Hey Anne. Check out our about page. Although we never knew the CCC would be THIS popular, we always had a glimmer of an idea that there would be gold in them there hills with these submissions, so we did plan on putting them into book form at some point.
If you think about it, we already have 17 challenges. If we took say 5 of the submissions for each challenge, that would make a fantastically creative 85 page book already.
Of course, any way we could get help from you and everyone else in the CCC would be most welcome.
Whatever we do, we just want to do it right by everyone here at the CCC. Nothing hasty, everything thought out thoroughly. It will be better for everyone here in our community.
And, I’m so addicted to these things that I NEED a paper back of it so I can take it with me when I’m away from my computer.
lol, I’m blogging about you guys again… will post the link when I’m done, and found that about page and the ebook… I’d like to see it also available in a paperback book, maybe at lulu.com or the other one I can’t think of at the moment.
That would mean paying a small fee, but I’m up for it and suspect others might be too.
CreateSpace is another service like Lulu; a little cheaper with the ability to create your own store front on your own domain. Either one kills me on shipping (I’m Canadian, eh) and shipping usually costs more than the books themselves
Kenn
Good info to know Kenn, Also, nice to meet a fellow Canuck in the online writing community too!
While sipping my prophylactic four ounces of red wine, I heard hysterical laughing, and forgetting that I was confined to a wheelchair, I tried to get up spilling the wine which formed a stain on the concrete floor, and fell into an unconscious state.
It seems my assistant was looking at a photograph of purported scary monsters taken during a hurricane, which she had found in the morgue of the local newspaper.
This created quite a bit of drama, as when she finished her break and returned to the room, she thought I was dead, probably due to the large red stain around my head and shoulders.
At least now I can look back on it and laugh myself, and has given me some ideas for future creative writing efforts.
That’s great Steve. I like how you turned prophylactic into an adjective here. I have to make a mental note for the upcoming challenges to look out for instances where I can use this technique too.
Thanks.
Once again, the prompts just jumped out and formed their own story. I really just edited a little from what flowed out.
I think the key for me is to not check out the prompts until I am going to work on my submission.
Was a little late today because I went to lunch a little late.
I know what you mean. I don’t like to pick the words until I’m sure I will be able to work on them immediately afterward. Just how my own creative process works, and I’d encourage everyone to listen closely to their creative muses; they tend to hint to us when we should write and when we shouldn’t.
Here you go: Important Conversations
http://bit.ly/czi8f4
As always, thanks Anne. I left you a comment on your site.
The Saga of Bayou Billy… part 3
So I’m sittin’ on the porch with a big ol bowl of gumbo laughin’ all hysterical-like cuz I’m watchin’ the young whipper-snapper tryin’ to git his new fangdangled wheelchair thingy up on the porch. I knows I ain’t not be laughin’ at him, but ever since that gator done took his legs, it’s been a might bit funny watchin’ the lil feller trying to git around the bayou in dat dere chair.
I remember the day the gator done took his legs too…. ‘members it like it was just yesterday. Comes to think of it, it was yesterday. Anyways, the little whipper-snapper was thrashing ’round in the bayou cuz this gator is coming after him, he can be such a drama-queen sometimes. So I tells him to quit his bitchin’ cuz it’s just a little ol gator and not some big scary monster or nuttin but noooo, he’s thrashin’ around like the Hurricane – ya’ll remember him? He was a prize-fighter and he could punch so fast that if he missed you the wind would blow ya over.
Anyways, now that I had a chance to think about it, me thinks it’s kinda ironical cuz I throw’d the kid in the bayou to wash the stain outta his shorts when the wife done fell’d on him, and he done went crapped in his pants again! I don’t know what it is wit dat lil feller and crap – he’s always messin around wit shit. Why just the other day I caught him feeding prophylactics to the dog. He done got the bright idea that the dog’s poop would come out already tied up in little baggies. Somedays I swears that kid is as dumb as a stump.
Anyways, back to me story….
the little feller was in the bayou all bitchin’ and stuff cuz the gator’s chawin’ on his legs and the bayou done look like a big ole glass a red wine and that’s when I says to myself, “Self,” and I recognized the voice right away cuz it sounded just like me. “Self,” I says, “You should take a photograph in case he don’t make it outta the bayou and you gots to prove it was a gator dat killed him.” But I couldn’t take no photograph cuz the wife done used up all the batteries, but that’s okay cuz the little feller got out of the swamp all by his-self. Well, most of him got out – his legs are still inside that gator somewhere.
Well I’d love to stay and chat wit ya’ll but the wife plans on gettin’ pregnant tonight so I should probably be there when that happens. And I gotta head on down to the county morgue to pick up my wife’s cousin’ brother’s sister’s second-cousin’s husband… seems he done shot his dumb-ass self right ‘tween the eyeballs. Doctor says the bullet done went clean threw the other side cuz there weren’t nuttin in the way to slow it down, so they called me to drive him up. He ain’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. I show’d him one of them there Canadian one dolla’ coins and he spent 3 days trying to git the chocolate out. I swear if it ain’t one thing its anudder wit my kin.
Kenn, you’re the man!!!!!!!!
This saga is so funny. I love the way you repeat figures of speech that he uses throughout each challenge. And the wheelchair line…..damn, caught me by surprise.
Great, highly creative, write!
Ahh, Ken, Ken, Ken! you are going to make me crap MY shorts if you don’t stop making me laugh so hard. I am a fan of twisted humor, and you are a master!
Thanks Margaret, glad you are enjoying it. I am having a LOT of fun writing it. Thank you for the wonderful compliment.
Thanks Shane, and thanks again for telling me about the challenge.
This is soooo much fun I decided to create a little section on my website just for Bayou Billy and his shenanigans. You can find it here http://kenncrawford.com/?page_id=142 and there’s an explanation of how it came to be, links back here and even a little comment from Billy himself (at the end of the post). Of course, each installment gets posted here first before I add it to my own website.
Super Cool Kenn!!!! Thanks for the link-love.
So I says to myself, “Self… this bloke Kenn is da man!!”
This saga always makes me laugh my ass off!
When the storm was announced, it’s like all the normally friendly people in my village turned into scary monsters. The store was completely gutted. They’d grabbed everything off the shelves, from baby food to towels. The last bottle of red wine had gone to the same guy who grabbed every prophylactic available… I guess he was planning some kind of post hurricane party. They even took the cardboard boxes that the cans had been carried to the shelves in.
I have a photograph of a young man reaching over the head of a little old lady to grab the last can of lima beans from the shelf. That poor lady was struggling to stay on her feet, having abandoned her wheelchair at the entrance to fight her way through the crowd on a cane, hoping to grab a little food.
That man, he’ll be ashamed when he sees this picture in the news. The poor woman looked halfway to the morgue, and it was too long before I could rescue her from where she’d collapsed on the floor when the crowds swept on, as powerful a force as the waters they currently feared.
A hysterical mother came to me as I was finishing closing the store. I had just bolted on the last of the storm shutters.
“There’s no food left for my baby,” she cried and demanded I let her in. She searched the store thoroughly before she would leave, even barging into the back storerooms, but the place was empty.
Still, I won’t let all this drama stain my image of this town though. This place which has become my refuge. When it is over, I will use my pictures and stories to let people know the foolishness of their panic. But first I must deliver that poor old woman a few cans to get her through the coming days, board up my windows, and gather the last of the ripe fruit from our mango trees before they are battered by the powerful winds and waters.
Dawn, that was a great story. You made me sad for that woman…and that’s a good thing.
Love how you used “drame stain” together like that, too. That’s another technique I will have to try.
great write…very apocalyptic “Stephen King” flavor.
Great story. I really liked it and could see something like this really happening. Well done.
Thanks for the welcoming comments. I followed a train of links here on my lunch break, and it looked like too much fun to miss out on. The whole site is a great idea.
Now I’m off to enjoy the other submission.
In a hurricane of hysterical drama at the morgue, the reprimanded intruder attributed the prophylactic’s stain to red wine that he had supposedly spilled after seeing a photograph of scary monsters taped to a wheelchair.
I challeng anybody to try and make a visual of Jaced story and not laugh. Great one again Jaced. Thanks.
Wow. I’m totally impressed by anybody who can pack a story into a single sentence.
There are times I wish that turning people into toads wasn’t forbidden.
*
It’s not the actual transformation that’s the problem. If you infuse a potion or a ritual with enough magical energy, you can do quite a bit. Granted, a transformation spell of that magnitude might leave you feeling as if you were suffering from a mental hernia or an internal rupture, but it’s possible.
*
The problem, quite simply, is basic physics. You can’t reduce the mass of a human body to something that would fit in the palm of your hand. Either you end up with a toad that’s several hundred times denser than a normal amphibian–which means that it tends to punch holes in concrete when it walks, if it can walk, never mind breathe–or you get a toad the size of a human being, which just tends to cause drama.
*
And there’s no adequate substitute for the giant toad, either. You can’t even use a photograph of a human-sized toad to impress anyone, either in person or on the Internet. People take one look and assume that the image has been Photoshopped.
*
Not that I would know, of course.
*
I had reason to think of this the day after Rachel Kerr disappeared.
*
Once I saw the crimson fluid that was most certainly not red wine stains seeping into the walls and floor of Room 120 and realized that Mrs. Kerr was missing, I carefully pushed my wheelchair-cum-walker back into my room–no way I was going to risk obliterating clues by cutting through her room, which looked as if it had been torn apart by a homicidal hurricane–and rang the buzzer for a nurse.
*
Why didn’t I call 911? Simple. After a certain time in the evening, nursing home residents aren’t allowed to dial out of the building. I think this is because of the “sundowners,” as the staff calls the Alzheimer’s patients who get worse at night. They can be fine all day, but when it starts to get dark (which is around three in the afternoon during a New England winter), they panic. There are hysterical accusations that the staff stole and hid their homes and is now lying about it, screams of kidnapping and alien abduction, and terrified cries of murder. Cops don’t need to be bothered by charges that are 99.9% imaginary. So, after nine p.m., all outgoing calls are blocked.
*
I get the staff’s reasoning. I do. But in the 0.1% of cases where something is radically wrong, that policy makes things very difficult.
*
So I buzzed for help. Then I lowered myself into my chair, began rolling back and forth–sometimes you just have to pace, even if your legs don’t want to cooperate–and tried not to think of scary monsters. Not ogres or nuckelavees or vengeful ghosts or fifth-level demons. Them, I could fight. There are ways of dealing with supernatural creatures. They even work…well, most of the time. But no one’s ever come up with spells or rituals that can stop a Ted Bundy or a Jeffrey Dahmer from killing–or even wanting to kill.
*
The nurse–an Eastern European woman with a long, horsy face and lank fair hair–sauntered in about ten minutes later. “Well,” she said impatiently, “what’s wrong?”
*
Judging from her demeanor, I was going to get exactly one sentence in before she started ignoring me, so I made it a good one. “Has Rachel Kerr been taken down to the morgue?”
*
The nurse gave me an odd look.
*
“Well, she’s not in her room. And it is the middle of the night, so I know she doesn’t have visitors, and she wouldn’t be in the cafeteria, the therapy rooms, or the rec room at this hour. Not that she could leave her room without help anyway, since she’s just had an operation and can’t move without agony. And she was in a lot of pain earlier, so I thought…”
*
“You shouldn’t be leaving your room,” she said, sounding for all the world as if I was five and she was my mother. “Is not good for you to be wandering about at night. Now, go back to bed–”
*
“I went as far as our common bathroom,” I said icily. I’m thirty-three. I don’t like being treated like a child, especially by someone my own age or younger. I swear, if you’re in a wheelchair, people mentally subtract at least fifty of your I.Q. points. “Could you just walk through and look? Maybe someone left a chart on her bed or something.”
*
She started to roll her eyes, and then stopped when she realized I’d noticed. “All right. But then you go back to sleep, yes?”
*
“Yes.” If I could get her to look in Room 120, I’d agree to run the Boston Marathon–without a walker.
*
She walked through the bathroom. I followed behind her as quietly as I could, wheelchairs not being the most silent of vehicles. I wanted to be absolutely sure she went in. It would be all too easy for her to not bother but say she did.
*
She rapped on the Rachel-side bathroom door. “Mrs. Kerr? You are there? You are all right?”
*
When she didn’t get a response, she strode into the room, squelching through the blood on the floor with reckless abandon. I winced, hoping that wouldn’t make it harder to find Rachel Kerr.
*
The nurse paused when she reached the bed, pulling on a Latex glove and picking up something lying on the spread. Then she marched back into my room, her face tight with distaste. “What is this?” she demanded, holding up a used condom.
*
“I believe it’s a prophylactic,” I said politely. “Probably Fata Ortega’s; he was cleaning this wing earlier this evening.”
*
Herbert Ortega is one of River Rock’s orderlies. “Fata” is his nickname. It stands for “Fuck Anything That’s Alive.” I think he’s slept with everyone on the staff–male, female and undecided. One of his kinks is sex in empty rooms, because in a nursing home, that’s as close as you can get to public sex. Someone can always walk in and start preparing an empty room for a new patient. Always.
*
What, you think people in nursing homes don’t gossip about this stuff? Please.
*
I waited, but the nurse didn’t say anything else. She just turned to go.
*
“That’s it?” I demanded. “You’re not even interested in the fact that the woman’s missing?”
*
The nurse gave me a strange look. “She’s not missing,” she said in a soothing tone that made me want to, as I said, turn her into a toad. “She’s sleeping peacefully, and that’s what you should be doing. You just didn’t see her because of the angle.”
*
I didn’t say anything more. There was no point. A hospital bed with the sheets fitted tightly over the mattress in no way resembles a bed with someone in it. But the nurse hadn’t seen an empty bed. She hadn’t even seen the blood staining her white sneakers and splattering her stockings. It was as if the room was resonating with a field that rendered Rachel Kerr’s disappearance Somebody Else’s Problem. Shades of Douglas Adams.
*
I had a terrible feeling that the fact that I could see what was wrong in the room made this my problem.
*
Tracey, this is quite a story you are weaving. I love it, even though it’s sad and reminds me of some of my relatives with Alzheimers. It kind of reminds me of the flavor or Decaprio’s new movie (can’t remember the name). Real good.
Hi, Shane! I’m glad you love it, even though it’s reminding you of your relatives with Alzheimer’s.
I think I’ve seen DiCaprio in one movie in my life. And it wasn’t Titanic; I’ve never seen that. He was a con man in the one I saw.
The hurricane was the colour of red wine. It turns out this is possible through the convective power of inductive reduction…reactions.
And other words that end (in one form or anotehr) with -ion.
Maybe.
I’m a bit obsessed with that particular arrangement of the latin alphabet: ion.
To quote the queen of melodrama Alanis Morisette, that’s ionic, don’t you think?
I’m also a bit of a humourist. At least I tell myself that.
I’m a scientist. Couldn’t you tell?
Just not a very good one. Or even a very okay one.
In fact, I’m a very weird one.
(Which, on the whole, isn’t on the same qualitative plane as “good” or “okay”, not having an inherent measurable value to it. But take my word for it that, in my particular case, the fact that I’m “weird” can be verified on the same scale as “good” and “okay”)
I’m the one who believes that scary monsters still live under my bed, who goes hysterical in a morgue, and believes that a stain is the residue of the soul of whatever left it, the extra digit that was supposed to carry but got lost along the way in the metaphorical equation.
Though I believe it’s a literal equation.
Yep. Weird.
In fact, I go into prophylactic shock whenever I see a photograph of a wheelchair, because it reminds me of stains, morgues and scary monsters.
Bad combination, that.
I also think I misused the definition of “prophylactic”, which, according to my med-school friends, means preparing for hell when purgatory’s on the way.
In short, prepare for the worst when you’re not sure what’s coming.
Bit of a motto of mine, that. Prepare for the worst. Always.
Yep. A bit weird.
Stuart, that was weirdly awesome! Thank you for joining the fun. I think you will find that these 10 ramdom words offer up many unique(weird) opportunities for you to get “it” out of your system.
Photograph found in the morgue:
A hurricane of scary monsters drinking red wine.
One, the hysterical one in the wheelchair
(quite the drama queen, it would appear),
pointing to an orange stain on her scaly leg -
the result of a cheap prophylactic. The stain,
not her leg.
Susan, that was a great submission. I don’t know what to call it, but your style is fantastic. And thanks for linking to us on your site. Everyone welcome Susan to the addiction.
The red wine stain on Peter’s wheelchair was a mystery, last night had been a real drama.
What started out as a simple trip to the cinema to watch a movie full of scary monsters coming to life in the morgue had soon turned into a real life nightmare.
The woman in the photograph he had lovingly kept in his wallet (along with the unused prophylactic) all these years had been there with a tall handsome man.
Peter’s mind was not on the movie, instead it was a hurricane of hysterical thoughts; rejection, self loathing and regret.
Jamie, welcome to the fun. That was a powerful submission; enough so to try and continue this story in the next challenge I believe. Several writers are doing this and I think this story would be a good one to continue.
PROGRAMMING NOTE
My computer power supply died. I’m borrowing a computer now to type this until I can install a new one. Today and tomorrow might be a bit crazy for me, so if your comment gets tied up in moderation, please bear with us.
The work of a medical examiner is not for everyone. Long hours in the cold morgue working with dead bodies, photographing and dissecting them, can be a lonely and thankless job. Dr. Stevens latest corpses were on the table he would soon be able to give the jury the latest information on the modus operandi of the Hurricane serial killer. The Hurricane Killer, as the tabloids call him, seduces his wheel chair victims by offering them plenty of red wine, then raping them, during loud and intense weather storms. It wasn’t until victim 37 was autopsied that the stain that would put him away was found. Prior to this incident the Hurricane Killer had used prophylactics to hide his identity. Dr. Stevens concluded that in victim number 37’s hysterical rage to stave off this scary monster, she was able to remove Hurricanes condom at the point of orgasm allowing her dress to be stained by Hurricanes DNA.
The scary monsters drank red wine in the big house atop the hill and talked about the bloated bodies burning outside in the aftermath of the hurricane.
“I don’t care for the smell, but it’s so much more efficient of running those things to a morgue.”
“I, for one, will be happy when this drama passes and we can get back to our regular lives.”
“Maybe this water will wash away the stain.”
The scariest monster spoke.
“I saw a photograph of some creature in a wheelchair. It drowned in its seat with its momma clinging to it! Can you believe that?”
“Mommy, it would appear, should have resisted those animal urges or invested her wages in a prophylactic!”
They laughed.
They found it all hysterical.
I adjusted my apron and brought out dessert on a heavy silver tray. Cinammon blanquilla pears soaked in the same Catalan that filled their glasses.
Another storm was brewing.
Outstanding. Nuff said.
And thank you for the link on your great lookin’ website.
Hmmm. Is it the red wine stain on the white carpet? Or is it the hysterical photograph of my friends dressed as scary monsters? Whichever the case, I only possess vague memories of last night’s drama-filled debacle. I think I embarrassed myself with wheelchair antics (wait, where did a wheelchair come from, anyway?). Maybe there was also a late-night visit to the morgue? Glancing at the trashcan by the bed, I heave a sigh of relief. At least there are no prophylactic wrappers waiting to haunt me. I think in the future I’ll be bowing out of hurricane-survival celebrations!
Another fine submission. Heave a sigh of releaf is going in the swipe file, too.
The Homecoming
Hurricane Katrina ripped through New Orleans in 2005 and was the costliest hurricane. It’s now 2010 and they’re still rebuilding. A few weeks ago, Katherine Davis’s mother called hysterical. Katherine’s Aunt Marguerite, who was in a wheelchair suddenly passed away. Listening to her mother, Katherine had a flash of the county morgue where years ago she had to identify the body of her lover. The scary monsters of the past were still there but not as profound. The drama of the entire ordeal was too much to handle, but Katherine got through it with the help of family and friends.
Katherine flew home to New Orleans to console her mother and to hear the reading of the will. Aunt Marguerite left Katherine her home on Tybee Island. Katherine was always Marguerite’s favorite. Marguerite kept a photograph of the two of them at a café in Paris on her fireplace mantle. It made her smile.
Katherine stood on the second balcony of her new home on Tybee Island, GA. She took a deep breath then a sip of her red wine. Leaving New York was not an easy decision. Her friends thought she was nuts to give up her cushy job on Wall Street. But Katherine couldn’t stomach the “wheeling and dealing” anymore. She had to get out.
Katherine went inside because a storm was on the horizon. As she walked down the hallway, she noticed a light coming from the bedroom on the left. She didn’t remember being in the bedroom. Katherine walked towards the door and opened it. She was horrified at what she found. There was a dark stain and prophylactic lying on the hardwood floor. The door slammed behind her and the wind began to howl. Katherine screamed. Her life from that point would never be the same.
Rebecca, another fantastic submission today. You should definitely continue this story in the next challenge.
Well! What the hell. Here I am in a wheelchair, stuck in the basement of a morgue during a hurricane that‘s rocking this building. There’s no one here but me and shadows of scary monsters dancing on the fingerprint stained handles of refrigerated niches. There‘s nothing here to eat or drink except an ice filled chest of red wine – at least I think it‘s red wine. Hence, I’ve drank three bags of wine and now I’m feeling a hysterical drama is being played out in my mind.
After looking at photographs of the occupants in niches numbered 1, 3, 5 and 6, I’ve decided to style a prophylactic from the thumb of a surgical glove and having my way with Miss Doe behind the door closest to the floor, number three.
Please don’t impugn my morality without considering STDs and unwanted pregnancies.
That was twisted-awesomeness, A. Hamilton. Keep it up.
Dear Son,
You’re only 27-months-old, so you have no way of knowing that a doctor diagnosed you with Autism today. You’re too young to be reading this website, too, but when you’re able, I just want you to know that I love you more than ever now.
You and your sister are the best things that have ever happened to me.
I love you son.
Love,
Daddy
For what it’s worth, I think you have it figured out. My best to you, your son and the rest of your crew.
Thanks Carson
Wow, Shane, this is a significant day for your family. The good news is there are a lot of people out there who can help you with your son, lots of resources available hopefully if you know how to access them. As a part of my job, I help families with children who have autism and other mental health issues. Once you understand the illness, then you can get the help and understanding you need. Let me know if I can help!
Thank you Loran. I will.
Really, I mean it! I’m in the business. You have my email so ask away. I can get you started. Although I imagine you and your wife are smart enough to figure it out, I’m happy to offer some suggestions to get you going.
We’re getting the 100 day packet, but I will indeed ask you if I feel I’m getting conflicting information at any point. Knew I could look to the CCC for awesomeness.
Spoken like the great dad I know you would be.
Thanks Shane! I think I will continue the story. Who knows, it could turn into a novel.
Feeling creative today so thought I’d post a second one:
Advice to My Children (Should I ever have any)
1. Red wine will stain white carpet.
2. Scary monsters can never be captured by a photograph.
3. Don’t take me to the morgue if I can still use a wheelchair.
4. Hurricanes are dramatic, but also fatal, and could land you in above-mentioned morgue.
5. A deep breath is a great prophylactic for a hysterical outburst.
Karetha, that’s a nice, cute 2nd submission. Thanks.
Shane, your son will always know how much you love him even if you never said the words…by your loving touch and your giving spirit towards him.
Thanks Ma!
I was sitting. Waiting. Numb. Watching the stain spread from the red wine my hysterical ex-wife drama queen had thrown at the door to the morgue. Our 22 year old son had just been wheeled in in a wheelchair. The aroma of death lingered in the air. Why did we have to be there? Why? Why had he become a heroin addict? Why had he been body-bagging? Why had the prophylactic broken? Why? All I could think, over and over, and over again, was “Why?”
The hurricane had pretty much missed us. Very little damage. Just a fallen photograph of some scary monsters he had taken at the haunted house last year. And then this. He showed up in shock. We hadn’t seen him in months and there he was at our door. I called his mom as I drove him to the hospital, but he died as I wheeled him inside the emergency room. And then they just took him to the morgue.
Why?
Cleve, that was powerful. Touching. Lot’s packed into those two paragraphs. Real nice, indeed.
“Red, red wine
It’s up to you
All I can do, I’ve done
But mem’ries won’t go
No, mem’ries wont go”
UB40 was blasting away, almost drowning out the hysterical sounds of the hurricane winds. Sonya was wondering what the hell possessed her to drive clear to South Carolina to visit Cecily in prison. She hadn’t checked the weather before she left. After all, she was heading south where it was supposed to be warmer, right? The windshield wipers worked furiously without much result. “I’m going to end up in a wheelchair or the morgue if this keeps up.”
Trying to take her mind off her fears, she remembered Jaiden and her scary monsters. Sonya told her prophylactic stories about guardian angels and protective spirits. She desperately wished she believed in them right now. Instead she called to mind her favorite photograph of Cecily, taken before all the shit hit the fan. She had been so happy and relaxed that day at the beach before the stain of Joe’s drama ruined her life.
Loran, you realize you should probably write a book with this Cicily character! I’m enjoying reading about her. Thanks.
I just might have to do that!
The work of a medical examiner is not for everyone. Long hours in the cold morgue working with dead bodies, photographing and dissecting them can be a lonely and thankless job. Dr. Stevens latest corpses were on the table and he would soon be able to give the jury the latest information on the modus operandi of the Hurricane serial killer. The Hurricane Killer, as the tabloids call him, seduces his wheel chair bound victims by offering them plenty of red wine, then raping and killing them during loud and intense storms. It wasn’t until victim 37 was autopsied that the stain that would put him away was found. Prior to this incident the Hurricane Killer had used prophylactics to hide his identity. Dr. Stevens concluded that in victim number 37’s hysterical rage to stave off this scary monster, she was able to remove Hurricanes prophylactic at the point of orgasm allowing her dress to be stained by his DNA ending the drama of a 10 year search for this serial killer.
Matt, great write. You made me believe that you could actually be a medical examiner, and that’s great when that happens as I read submissions.
Thanks.
Red, Red Wine by Bob Marley drifted from the house down to the bonfire on the beach. There’s nothing like a pending hurricane to start the party. The gathering of friends on the beach, watching, even surfing, the waves churned up by the offshore storm is like a prophylactic against the danger of ending the evening in the morgue. The hysterical feeling of immortality flows ever stronger and keeps the storm’s scary monsters at bay.
But that was how she ended up in a wheelchair. It’s only been 3 years, but the drama around the last big storm stains her soul as if it were yesterday. There’s a photograph stuck in her mirror frame of her standing next to her last surfboard. Half of that board hangs on her wall as a reminder of how scary monsters aren’t always kept at bay with a bonfire and friends. She’s living proof that sometimes surfboards and hurricanes just don’t mix.
Kool Aid, that was a great read. I just liked how it flowed.
Money line “The hysterical feeling of immortality flows ever stronger and keeps the storm’s scary monsters at bay.”
Wow! I almost can’t wait for the next hurricane.
I thought it would be hysterical. Then again I thought most of the things I thought about doing or actually did were, that is until the shit hit the fan and all the ensuing drama unfolded. Prior to my latest accomplishment, I wondered if my parents laughed at all before performing their perfunctory parental duties. Maybe they were always truly disgusted with me and thought of me as the stain of the family. Mom, Dad, the twins..all picture-perfect in a “Hall of Fame” family photograph…all except me; tranquil like the rest until without warning, off like a hurricane set on destroying anything and everything in it’s path..and usually always just for a laugh! And there’s no prophylactic for it whatsoever. Once the idea was there, it had to be carried out. It was who I was. It was what I did.
I was a senior in high school. I balanced work and my studies so it was the perfect cover for the young, enterprising mind of the school and hospital’s only Mary Jane supplier. And I’m not talking about the classic peanut butter maple chew either, oh no! You know what I’m talking about.
Working in the “meat locker” as we so affectionately referred to it at Montgomery General, I quickly befriended both common laborer and doctor alike; from janitor to coroner, to heart surgeon, to file clerk, to nurse. I was well liked and respected at the hospital. I’d been working there since eighth grade for God’s sake. Dad was a school teacher and Mom stayed at home, so someone had to pick up some extra dough. I couldn’t stand the complaints regarding my expensive taste in tennis shoes and clothes anyway. “Why can’t you wear these, they’re nice and are $50 bucks cheaper!” my mom would say. She never did understand fashion or what it meant to be ridiculed at school. So there I was, weaving my way into the social fabric of Montgomery General, learning a skill and pedaling my product.
It always struck me as funny and weird how quickly and freely co-workers would open up and offer up the most intimate details of their personal lives, their most secret desires and fantasies, childhood memories, spats with their spouses, secret rendezvous with their lovers. It was rumored that Doctor Spence was sleeping with Karla the candy striper. I wonder if his wife ever found out. If she had, he would have ending up in the morgue too, right next to the other lucky stiffs. Perhaps intimacy is more easily attained with a complete stranger. Perhaps home life wasn’t all it was cracked up to be for these folks.
Only a select few knew I was the man to go to if one needed to get high. From there, I slowly and quietly built an unlikely clientele. If I told you the best heart surgeon in the state, the one that did your grandfather’s quadruple bypass was a regular, would you have believed me? It’s true. You find these things out after years at one job. She, the client, was a lock once a month for $600 an ounce of the most powerful wacky tabacky man had ever known. This stuff was so good it scared Bob Marley’s ghost!! “Dat sensi too strong Babylon, make me mind go crazy like a towsund scary monstas runnin around inside! Don’t smoke it mon”.
So the plan was actually conceived the first week of employment roughly 4 to 5 years ago. The coroner was a family friend. So, I got my foot in the door and began by cleaning the “tools of destruction”. That’s what I called them anyway. My favorite was the rib cutters. Not for their design, but because of the sound they made when cutting through ribs. Imagine the sound of styrofoam being squeezed but ten times louder, ending with a loud “click” as the blades finally found their way clear through the bone. That’s what it sounded like. And that’s why I liked it. It was gruesome.
As a child, I remembered the twins (I came 10 years after them – a mistake I was told) talking about 12th grade Anatomy class. Everyone knew about Anatomy class. It was Dr. Chesser’s class. And every year there was a field trip to the morgue at Montgomery General to check out John Doe and the other stiffs. My imagination always ran wild when Frick and Frack (nicknames for the twins of course) would talk about it. I imagined being a senior on the trip. I imagined reaching in the cadaver and scooping out the heart, guts, liver, kidneys and squeezing them until they burst between my fingers right in front of everyone. I imagined the blood splattering all over the place, all over everyone’s clothes and their faces. I imagined the horror and shock of it all. Dudes would hurl chunks, chicks would faint and would need wheelchairs, and I…I would be a Mayan King in action for just a few very long seconds. I would be an eternal legend in high school folklore. So I thought way back then that when I got my chance, when it was time for my field trip, I would plan something horrific!
Everything had lined up perfectly. I was a senior. I was also the unofficial autopsy assistant at “the locker”. And, the coroner owed me one since I fronted him some weed. I also bought him a bottle of Smoking Loon Pinot as a Christmas gift, a fitting red wine considering his habit and occupation. He was “too busy” this year and felt quite guilty for not reciprocating. So, I was actually two up. All I asked is that he play along just this once. He reluctantly agreed only because he knew we would get away with it and most likely the shock would cause only minor movement, all to easily explained by post mortem bioelectric activity. The plan was to attach defibrillator paddles to Johnny Doe’s underside and rig a switch, all properly concealed of course so as to secretly send over 1,000 volts of electricity through this poor bastard at just the right time; right as the class moved in for a closer look at the heart. Johnny boy would live that day, and he would undoubtedly scare the living daylights out of the entire Anatomy class. Sounded good enough to the both of us.
But, life seems to have it’s own sense of humor sometimes. One way or another when I hit the switch, instead of delivering one quick jolt, the defibrillator delivered a 10 second flow of electricity which made good ole Johnny boy there do the fucking jig!! He leapt to an upright, awkward stance from the autopsy table in an instant. His limbs, stiff with rigormortis thrashed about in a most unusual way. His bottom jaw opened and closed with lightening speed creating an eerie and unusual chatter, while the muscles in his face, especially those controlling the mouth and lips contracted and contorted into grotesque shapes and gestures, none of which could be made while alive. The internal organs began to smoke, snap, and crackle as the fat and tissue cooked. Sparks flew from the tips of his fingers, and patches of skin on his arms and shoulders caught fire. Finally, the burning organs spilled to the floor in an audible splash from his now gaping torso. And the smell, oh my God the smell. It was terrifically horrible; it smelled like rotten, burnt scrambled eggs or something; something so foul and revolting. How evil it all was! You should have seen it!! Johnny boy rose from the dead and did the God damn River Dance…right in front of Dr. Chesser and 27 horrified seniors.
At first, no one had moved. They froze in absolute fear. Then panic set in. I can’t recall how many students puked instantly. It scared the blood right out of their skin! Holy shit was it fantastic! Some soiled themselves. Others pissed themselves. One died instantly of heart failure. Everyone’s lives were shortened that day by at least 10 years; one for every ghastly second that Johnny danced. I laughed uncontrollably.
Needless to say the jig was up. I lost my job and was arrested for suspicion of drug trafficking and negligent homicide. My parents didn’t come to my rescue, so I guess they never found any humor in my transgressions. But I didn’t care. I found it to be absolutely hysterical.
That’s a fantastic story, Soalarch. I bet Kenn is going to love your style!
Welcome to the addition!
Soalarch; I laughed so hard it made the floor shake in this old house of mine.
It was Nate Logan’s first week as a detective for the Meadow Brook Police Department. His first day actually. He passed his exam, left patrol, and was now working in the homicide division. He sat in his town car at the corner of Austen and Dawson waiting for the light to turn green.
“Turn left in 70 feet” his GPS system informed him.
He knew how to get to the school. He graduated from there eight years ago. He graduated at the top of his class with a BA in Criminal Justice. He always thought it was ironic that the two major degree plans at Meadow Brook were Criminal Justice and Drama. One half of the college was focusing on finding the truth, the other half focused on playing aliases and fake people.
He pulled up next to a curb adjacent to a building marked off with yellow tape. Some students were crying others were praying. A convoy of ambulances and emergency vehicles blocked the street from anyone non-essential getting through.
Stretcher after stretcher and wheelchair after wheelchair were being paraded from the building.
Nate opened a bottle of aspirin and took three tablets. He had a celebratory evening with his wife last night.
Probably not a good idea to drink a bottle of red wine the day before your new job.
Prophylactics be damned. Now that he’s a couple pay grades higher, Karen thought maybe they should start trying for a family.
They didn’t get much rest last night.
Nate stepped out of his town car, lifted the tape and started walking towards the building.
Nate adjusted his sunglasses. The sun was amazingly bright this morning. If it wasn’t for this massacre, it would be a pretty good day.
Nate’s new partner, Arthur Linus approached.
“Good morning, Detective.”
“Morning, Art. Is it really a good one, considering?”
“Touché. Ready for your first homicide case?”
“I have to be. I forced myself not to think much about it on the way up here. What happened?”
“About 8:20 this morning, the suspect walked into Shepard Hall, pulled a fire alarm, and when people started filing out, he just started to open fire.”
“Casualties?”
“Six wounded. Eight dead. Two of the dead are the shooter and the hero.”
“Hero?”
Art looked at his notes.
“Yeah, initial reports say that a theatre arts teacher tackled the guy and grabbed his gun. He killed the shooter, but was hit as well.”
“Seriously?”
They approach the door which is being held by a uniformed officer who gave a congratulatory smile at Nate.
“Detective.”
“Morning Bartlett.”
Nate entered the hallway and removed his sunglasses. It took a second for his eyes to adjust. Then when they did, he wished it would be blurry again.
Oh my goodness.
The close-quartered hall was littered with bodies. It was if a category five hurricane of death and mayhem hit this place. Blood stained the floor and wall. It even found its way into crevices and light sockets. The photograph taken in his mind will no doubt breed scary monsters and ferocious beasts in his coming dreams.
“Is there going to be enough room in our morgue for all of these bodies?”
They didn’t live in a small town, but they weren’t huge like Las Vegas, Miami, or New York.
It’s going to be surreal, but they’re going to use the university’s laboratory morgue.
Perfect.
Nate looked down at a kid wearing a trench coat.
What’s with the creepy smile?
“This our shooter??”
Art nodded.
Nate squatted and paid attention to the bullet hole in the kid’s chest.
“Do we have a name?”
“No ID found on him, we’re trying to find out if he’s a student or not.”
Nate frowned. It’s a look his wife knew all too well. It meant that his wheels were spinning.
“And our hero??”
Art pointed at the crumbled body leaning against the wall.
Nate swiveled on the balls of the feet 180 degrees and did a once over.
Poor bastard.
He looked at the wound in the hero’s shoulder.
“His name?”
Art looked in his notebook.
“Tennpenny. Luke Tennpenny, he was a theatre teacher here.”
Nate shot a surprised look at Art then moved the hero’s chin to get a good look at his face.
“Luke?!?!!”
Nate was in shock. He new this guy. He knew Luke. They used to be room mates here. They used to be best friends.
Holy Crap?? Does Alicia know yet?
This is horrible.
“Do you know this guy?”
“He was my best friend. I haven’t seen him in a few years. I didn’t know he moved back here. Has his family been told?”
“Not yet. We found a phone next to him. We assume it’s his.”
“Let me do it. I know his wife.”
“Fine with me. You need me to ride along?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Nate rushes from the scene back to his car. He finds the address and rushes to Luke’s house.
Please not be home. Please not be home.
As bad as Alicia needed to know, he doesn’t know how to tell her. He knocks on the door.
Alicia answers, absolutely hysterical.
“Nathan?”
“Hey Alicia..”
“Is this about Lucius??”
“Yeah it is..”
Nate’s phone rang. It was Art.
“Nate, just got a call from the ambulance. The shooter is alive.”
ERIC, YOU SLY MO-FO!!!!!!!!!! Damn, what a cliff hanger, man.
This story should indeed be in a book my friend.
Great line about the criminal justice – drama irony.
You’re too kind Shane. Sorry they’re late. Wasn’t feeling that great this week. I’ll try to catch up soon.
I’m really enjoying doing this. The past two challenges fit the story perfectly.
I just hope I can keep it going, especially with trying to keep each point of view an individual stand alone story.
Get well, man. I’m tryin’ to do the same.
YOu have all weekend to crank out a submission for 18 so take your time.
This darn thing called work has taken me away from the fun so here’s this one, better late than never.
It was the year Hurricane Juan ripped through and tore the damn roof off the damn house. 2003 was the year that the shit hit the fan and even today it was still dripping down on us in great noxious gobs of crap-filled fate. It seemed like life in the intervening seven years was just chock full of drama. With eleven kids under the age of 12, there’s just always one drama or another my Ma always tells us.
When the roof came off the house, Ma and Pa were shagging like two rabbits. They must have been really getting their groove on, the fury of the rising storm getting them more and more “het up”. Suddenly that there roof ripped clean off the beams and took Pa with it. One minute he was there humping his ass up and down, the next Ma was left holding the bag… actually just the prophylactic. Of course then she went and got hysterical; it took two days to calm her down enough to take that drippy old condom away from her. She claimed it was all she had left, we never did find Pa’s body to take down to the morgue. The photograph that we put in the box at his wake was the one of Ma, Pa, me and my 9 brothers and sisters at my grade six graduation. Pa was grinning from ear to ear, proud that I was the first generation to finish grade school. Yep, he was convinced I was Harvard material… or maybe even community school.
Nine months later, my littlest brother was born. Of all the freaking names she could of chose, she had to pick, you guessed it…. Juan. So here’s little Juan, now six years old, afraid of the boogeyman and scary monsters under the bed. The little rugrat is just the spitting image of Pa, despite the stain left on the sheets that night. Yep, there’s one thing could be said about Pa, he had good little swimmers.
Juan is always trying his damndest to run one of us down in that wheelchair of his. Two years ago, he lost both legs and a nut in a freak accident. I had this moonshine still built out there in the back woods; putting some good use to that education of mine. Juan had nicked some smokes off Ma and was out there puffing like a banshee and he musta flicked the butt in the wrong direction. The whole operation went up like a fireworks display on Canada Day. We found his left leg and a testicle in a birch tree half a mile away.
So I gave up the shine business. Think I’ll stick to bootlegging-home made red wine. This latest batch I’m calling “Birch Wood Balls”. Pa would be proud.
I’m so glad you decided to do this one still. Great, funny write.
great noxious gobs of crap-filled fate – had me laughing with that one. Adding that to my swipe file.
What potential he had! He could have been a nasty old man who liked to photograph children, a double-amputee confined to a wheelchair or a man driven insane by ongoing complications caused by a defective prophylactic. He could have been quite simply hysterical. In my mind, a hurricane of possibilities raged, a whirlwind of dashing anti-heroes and gallant antagonists, upstanding citizens with deviant secrets and scary monsters with soft underbellies.
But this character’s story was completely void of human emotion. No drama. No humor. No conflict. He was little more than a stain on the back-story of Shan Earth Ur.
I poured myself a glass of red wine and wrote the pathetic thing into the morgue—no doubt, it was the climax of his futile existence.
Troy, are you going to compile these into a book? I sure hope so. It’s quite a world you created.
The tipped glass of red wine flowed over the purity of the white linen, forming single drops of escape. Swallowed by the pooling blood, the drops surrendered to the silent thirst.
Following the path, he dipped his finger across the mingled crimson and raised it to lips gone dry. A hurricane of emotion shook him, as it always did. From his early days when he learned scary monsters were more than a child’s imagination, he fought hard for control. Never again would he be the victim. If he had to kill them all, so be it.
Pulling the aging photograph from his inside pocket, he pressed it against the slow beating of his heart and began to cry. Why was there always so much drama? If only they wouldn’t make him so mad.
Brett received the call shortly before three a.m. At that hour, he knew someone else had died. That was his job. That was his life. There was no prophylactic cure for the atrocity of murder, and it never got easier. Making his way toward the morgue, Brett prayed it never did.
With Metallica blasting in hysterical, ear-splitting volume, Brett waved his hand in front of the face of the city’s coroner, Randy Watkins.
“Yo, Randy, how the hell can you hear yourself think?”
Picking up a remote, Randy silenced his ironic song selection, And Justice For All.
“We’re talking classic here,” Randy smiled, “Anyway, my guests don’t seem to mind.”
“Well, if any of them raise a hand in protest, let me know. What’s the word on my Jane Doe?”
Rolling his wheelchair over to an adjacent table, Randy pointed to her lower back.
“Here’s something that might interest you.”
Leaning close, Brett murmured, “What is that? A faded tattoo?
“More like a stain.”
“You mean a birthmark?”
“No, I mean a stain.”
“So, what is it?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson. It’s hair dye.”
“Funny place for hair dye.”
“Exactly.”
@Cathy: Again, a well done submission. Can’t find a thing wrong with it!