BET YOU CAN’T do this writing prompt. Take the 10 random words below and, in the comments, crush writer’s block by creating a cohesive, creative short story tying all of them together! And remember: after (if) 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 previous writing prompts, we BET YOU CAN’T do those, either.)
- Unstressed Syllables (hat tip to Aaron Pogue)
- Knucklehead
- Demerol (hat tip to me)
- Freak
- Piss
- Crowbar
- Pansy
- Infiltration
- Beast
- Sizzle
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.
{ 137 comments… read them below or add one }
“They’re called ‘unstressed syllables‘,” James pointed to the page. Then he smirked. “Knucklehead.”
“Are you takin’ the piss?” The Brit frowned at the mild teasing.
“Absolutely not,” James crossed his arms casually. “Just putting the crowbar to your skills to see what’s underneath.”
“Lots of Demarol.” A wry look crossed the Brit’s face. “I’m a freak of nature, y’know. Just for the sake of some sizzle.”
“Ahh, no, you’re a beast of nature,” James grinned. “A real lady’s man.”
The Brit’s eyebrows raised, and grinned back. “If I’m a real lady’s man, what does that make you then, a pansy?”
Oh wow. Is this a scene between two assassins? That’s so cool.
Dammit James, write a book!
Mark was one crazy, bad-ass mofo.
And so was I, but we both knew six 250-pound knuckleheads approaching with crowbars and sticks required quick thinking, not quick hands.
Mark was a master manipulator; a freak of psychological warfare able to get into people’s heads, direct them like puppets, and gain the upperhand in any situation he faced. It was always amazing watching him sizzle.
So, it was no surprise to me when the lead beast among the approaching antagonists yelled, “Are you the dude that’s been hitting on my girlfriend in Biology class?” and was greeted by Mark with hands on pivoting hips, head bobbing back and forth, and his patented pansy voice lisping, “Let me tell you something silly. Listen to the unstressed syllables of my voice. I’m a hom-O-sex-U-al. Got it!”
I could have pissed myself laughing (Mark was indeed boning his girlfriend), but I kept it in as not to distract from Mark’s follow up.
“That means I’d like to suck YOUR dick, not your slutty girlfriend’s. I don’t mind fighting and rolling around with sweaty men. In fact, I was fighting with this sexy guy just the other day, and we were rolling around and I kissed him in the mouth as he was hitting me. He won the fight something fierce, but every time he looks in the mirror he’ll remember my sugar lips.”
With a demerol-dumb look on his face, “Fuck this dude. Let’s go guys,” was the last thing the meathead said as he and his pack left the area. Mark saved the day once again.
The following week the fraternity next to us assembled on the street cursing and taunting our fraternity—over what I can’t even remember other than to say it was something stupid; it always was.
So there we were, forty guys on each side yelling back and forth at each other, Mark included. We exchanged volleys for a few minutes and I realized Mark was nowhere to be found. This was bad. He was one of our best fighters. I asked where Mark was but nobody knew. The taunting intensified.
All of a sudden, from the back of the opposing fraternity’s assembly, we heard a familiar voice yelling, “Sigma Nu sucks. Fuck those pricks, let’s kill them.”
Within milliseconds we realized that the voice was Mark’s. Holy shit, he had snuck around the back of our enemies and was acting like one of their own. It was a ballsy infiltration, but we knew he could get jumped at any minute so we advanced.
Seeing his backup arrive, he looked down at his Sigma Nu shirt, hit his own head, and yelled, “Wait a second, I’m a Sigma Nu. How can I fuck myself?”
Long story short, the ememy fraternity was so rattled and impressed by Mark’s actions a rumble never occurred, and new friendships formed.
I really miss that dude.
One of your best, Shane. I’m so glad CCC offers you a cyberspace couch to channel your anger.
Hmmm…new meaning for CCC? Cyberspace Couch Channeler.
Thanks Cathy. It’s good to know how I’m doing. Odd, I don’t get too many comments on my submissions (insert self pity here
)
O.K., So normally you would need a crowbar to get me off this site, but today?…..What kind of pansy-ass, knucklehead freak would make me think of a way to use unstressed syllables in a story? It’s enough to make my brain sizzle while reaching for the demeral. Come on, guys, don’t piss me off by bringing in an infiltration of crazy-ass phrases. You don’t even want to see me turn into a beast!
What else can I say, Margaret. You’re awesome.
Great, funny write. It amazes me what you guys come up with each time. I’m so grateful.
Thanks, Shane…I’m grateful you’ve given us a venue…long live CCC!!
Very funny–I know I freaked when I saw that unstressed syllable thingy.
Jackie yawned, stretched, scrambled up to take a piss, grateful they still had gravity. “Candy will freak; we’ll have to use a crowbar to get her back in that spacesuit,” Jackie muttered to herself. “Shane suggested demerol would help. After all, Dr. Aaron Pouge had promised the drug would make talking without unstressed syllables almost easy. It might work on other conditions.”
“Ummmm,” Jake began, sounding like his usual knucklehead self. “Errr, what’s that sizzle?”
“Ahhh relax, Beast,” Jackie replied, arranging the colorful pansy bouquet. “It’s just the, um, infiltration system.”
That’s great, Anne. I love how you use the word infiltraton here.
rats, can’t edit for spacing???? oh well. still fun.
I’ll do it. Tell me where.
not sure it’s worth it, but thanks anyway.
You’re worth it! Let me know.
The Story – The Voices – The Podiobook
There’s nothing quite like the feeling an author gets when he holds his own book in his hands for the very first time. It is inspiring, invigorating, and the beginning of a very long and arduous journey.
Hi, my name is Kenn Crawford, author of the zombie thriller novel, Dead Hunt. I would like to tell you about the podcast audio version and how you can help me spread the word. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to sell you a copy, there are no lists to join, I’m not looking for email addresses or any of that nonsense – it’s just me wanting to tell you about an audio book that is so new I’m still playing with the bubble wrap.
The Story
Off the coast of Nova Scotia on a remote island, a lonely scientist, a powerful computer, a simple mistake, unleashes a new threat somewhere in the hills of Margaree. Dead Hunt is the chilling tale of a desperate father’s undying love, a daughter frozen in time, and the small group of teens trapped in the aftermath of walking dead.
The prologue opens with a machete-weilding girl covered in blood (crowbars are just as effective on zombies but they get heavy after a while). From that point on the book has a new beast to deal with, a formula with adverse side-effects, an infiltration set up by the most unlikely villian, and a story line that will sizzle your brain with terror!
“I was positively terrified while reading Dead Hunt.”
– Holly Christine, Reviewer for The Pittsburgh Books Examiner
The Voices
Dead Hunt is narrated by author R.E. Chambliss (my Cape Breton accent sounded funny narrating it when I stressed the unstressed syllables) and features the voice talents of: Kimi Alexandre (the Pretty Cheerleader), Brian Brown (The geek but he ain’t a pansy), Ry Stevenson (the Knucklehead Jock), Melissa Bartell, Kim Butler (more cheerleaders) and Erk (An Aussie who needs a shot of demerol). With special guest appearances by Andrew Ball, Arlene Radasky, Judy, Kristopher Lamont (He’s a voice-over freak and does 3 different voices), Lindsey Burns, Lisa Tobias, Neil Stringer, Nobilis Reed, Randall Carruthers, Tom Storms and Featuring Rick Stringer of Variant Frequencies as the voice of Professor Patrick Heslin, and introducing “Robin” as herself.
Music by Farrell Jackson, Tom Storms, Gregory Cain and Kenn Crawford.
“Dead Hunt is a compelling story with superior production values.”
–Dilwyn Havard, Biochemical Scientist, Cardiff, Wales
The Podiobook
Friday, March 19th, 2010, Dead Hunt debuts on Podiobooks.com – a place where listeners, authors and creators come together with more than 300 titles available online. Please help me kick start the launch of my debut novel, Dead Hunt, on Friday, March 19th, by visiting http://podiobooks.com/title/dead-hunt (Right now that link is a blank page but don’t worry, it’ll work on Friday). Can’t wait for the launch? Dying to hear a few episodes right now? Visit http://deadhunt.kenncrawford.com and listen online today!
Tell your friends, tell your neighbors, just don’t tell your kids because this book contains coarse language and graphic violence. Listener discretion is recommended so I wouldn’t suggest it at the next church social either.
Thanks everyone,
Kenn Crawford, Author of Dead Hunt
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Kenn Crawford is a published songwriter and recording engineer from Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, Canada. He wrote a weekly music column for a local newspaper and is the founder of Home_Recording, one of the largest home recording groups on Yahoo since 1999. He maintains a blog on writing and music (kenncrawford.com) and is writing two other novels – the sequel to Dead Hunt and a vampire novel. He currently lives in Margaree Valley on Cape Breton Island, Canada.
THE FINAL WORD WITH BAYOU BILLY:
Bonjour my friends. I’m sitting on the porch eating a big ol’ gumbo and I says to myself, “Self,” and I recognized the voice right away cuz it sounded just like me. “Self,” I say, “you ought to let dat Kenn feller talk about his book cuz it’s kinda impotent to him. So I thought long and hard ’bout it for three or two days, and I say he can go take a piss cuz the CCC be my home! So I’ll be back later this af’ernoon or t’night maybe wit a new story. Mais yeah my friend, I gots a good one fer ya too. In da meantime, how ’bout you tell yer friends about his new book and check out his site so he stop whining like a baby cuttin’ it’s tooths.
Au revoir!
Kenn, that’s a great tie-in to your site and audio book. Very creative.
You know, I’d love to see Bayou Billy get bitten by a zombie and turn into one.
Ya’ll wanted me to git bit by a freakin’ zombie?
What I ever do to you?
Have you done lost yer marbles you freak? How ’bout I stick that crowbar of yours where the sun don’t shine and see how your unstressed syllables be stressin’ then? You wants me to git bit by a zombie… of all the no good, pansy-smellin’, knucklehead things to say. Ya’ll ain’t invited to the bayou no more so take that hairy beast you call yer wife and keep outta Gator Crossing or I’ll git the shotgun outta Double D’s school bag and have you pissin’ in yer pants! I’m beginnin’ to feel like that ol Sampson feller… no, not the one in da Bible, the one wit the junk yard that say’s “I’ma comin’ ‘Lizabeth!”. I needs a shot a demerol to calm meself down.
I just messin’ with ya my friend. Mais yeah, but hey, see how’d I done did some sneaky infiltration and done snuck in all 10 of them words into Kenn’s post? Pretty sneaky, no? When he find out he gonna git mad. Mais yeah he gonna sizzle like bacon in a fryin’ pan but to hell wit him. He done took my spot on the CCC and dis be my home – so I done took my spot back is all what I did.
Au revior,
Bayou Billy
Bayou Billy, your gravatar photo looks just like Kenn’s! Amazing!
Great to have you here in the CCC.
LOL How else is I s’pposed to infiltrate his post? Dey say a picture tells a t’ousand words… his be sayin’ it time for new picture.
Its good to be here. I ain’t had this much fun since my wife got her boob caught in the wringer washer.
Wringer Washer! That should be in a BB episode.
Great creativity, Kenn. Loved it!
If it’s that “impotent” to him, I’m sure he can get some of dat der “viagra” from dem Amazon folks on da computer thing. Great marketing, Ken, I’ll tell my daughter and her husband.I “cat sat” for them while they were on vacation, went to pop in a movie and all they had were “walking dead” type of films. (now if only I could get Bayou Billy to market my flowers!!)
My wife, my sweet Yvonne, when she was at the hospital she got some Viagra from the doctor. He told her jist to use one but my wife thought maybe three or two of them would be better so when we was sittin down at dinner she done put the whole bottle in my bowl a gumbo. Next thing I know’d I jumped up, ripped her clothes off, bent her o’er the table and had my way with her for three or two hours! It was a lot of fun but we can’t never go back to that restaurant agin!
Funny you should bring up Viagra – pardon da pun – but Viagra is kinda like zombies… they both is the dead brung back to life.
What kinda flowers you wanna bring to market? I use-ta work in a flower shop b’fore they fired me. When Thibideux’s Restaurant and Bait Shop first opened somebody done sent them a nice bouquet of flowers, but when Missus Thibideaux read the card it say’d “Rest in Peace.”
Well she done went and call’d me up to complain so I say to her, what the big deal mon cher? Right now they be someone at the funeral home with a card that say “Congratulations on your new location.”
I’ve paid to go to comedy clubs before and I didn’t laugh as much as I am now, Billy. Thanks.
Merci, my friend.
Hopefully when I get the podcast goin’ you find it funny too. Den agin, I’m hopin that people just find it. My wife, my sweet Yvonne, she done told me to take my act on the road but I no like that so much – almost got hit by a truck a couple or three times. Right now I am working on a song for my podcast. Actually, right now I am typing this message to you but I think you knows what I meant to said. Well, I was working on a song but I had to stop so Kenn could use the computer to try and git folks to go to his book launch. But soon as he be done wit dat, its back to the music. And I’ve been learnin’ stuff too to make my podcast sound more better.
Awesome. I want to co-write a song with Bayou Billy. I have the hook and a few lines. I’ll fix you up some gumbo and chat about it one day.
Dat sound great Shane. If you got the hook and a few lines we can go fishin’ in the bayou. Shoot me o’er an email sometime and we can talk about it once the smoke clears from all dis book publishun stuff. I gots me own email address too. it be bayoubilly (at) kenncrawford (dot) com
E’erbody is welcome to send me emails too and follow me on twitter: http://twitter.com/bayou_billy_101
funny bout viagra and zombies, Billy, it’s jes wonderful to see what the “stiffs” can do!!
Speakin’ about stiffs….
I use-ta work at the funeral home b’fore they fired me. They brung in poor Wille cuz he done O.D.’d on Viagra. It weren’t none too easy gettin’ that coffin lid closed so I jist saw’d off his you know what. Under medical condition I wrote: Hiscoxabroken. His wife was so sad and cryin’ cuz she was gonna miss him so I gave her Willie’s willie. Lord a-mighty she done got so happy. Just goes to show ya: it was strong enough for a man but made for a woman!
yuk…that reminds me, Billy, didja hear the old joke …….what did Jeffrey Dahmer say to Lorena Bobbitt?………….”Hey, you gonna eat that”?!
OMG–stop-my sides can’t take all the laughing.
Thanks for getting my day started with laughter–all it took was a little–or rather a lot–of viagra and Bayou Billy. LOL!
Hello friends,
Just a quick note to say thank you to everyone who checked out the official launch of my book, Dead Hunt.
Episode 1 has been downloaded or played 3,773 times so far today and it’s only 9am EST. I am in awe and humbled.
Thank you
Kenn
Sweat poured off Gregg’s face, the Demerol was wearing off. ”What are your scanners picking up?” he asked Jesse.
“I’m picking up a Knucklehead at 100 paces, moving toward us, infiltration of our perimeter was at 0900 hours. God, they smell. Tell me again why do they call them knuckleheads?”
“I guess you haven’t seen one yet. Get ready and don’t scare the beast. You think they smell now, if it takes a piss, we’ll need our gas masks.” Gregg’s grip on the crowbar tightened as he hedged forward. He looked back as Jesse hesitated. ”Pansy,” Gregg whispered moving on toward the prehistoric creature.
“Freak.” Jesse retorted as he inched forward behind Gregg, his eyes clued to the vegetation the animal used as cover. Suddenly, it emerged in full view, its cranial cap knotted like the knuckles of a fist. Jesse back tracked crushing dry leaves and twigs with strangled unstressed syllables of expletives rising in his throat.
“Quiet!” Gregg hissed but it was too late. The noise startled the beast. It raised its massive head in fear. The sizzle of acidic urine created a toxic cloud of an unimaginable stench. Gregg fumbled for his mask in vain as winds blew the noxious fumes to their location within seconds.
The large reptile approached the two inert bodies, just feet apart. It leaned its snout toward the first and sniffed. Coughing and sneezing, it shook its massive head to clear away the foul odor from its nostrils before fleeing back into the forest.
Liss, welcome to the CCC. That was an excellent 1st submission. Very descriptive. Everyone welcome Liss to the fun.
Ps. Creative Chocolate! Thats’ an awesome name for a website.
Hi Liss, welcome to the addiction.
Cool story. I like it.
Liss:
Welcome to the CCC world of unstressed syllables and poetic genius. The CCC community welcomes all. You won’t find a single knucklehead in this community and the feel-good buzz is better than a shot of demerol. It’s no freak accident that we return week after week. Where else can you cry one minute,then practically piss on yourself with laughter?
You won’t need a crowbar to pry yourself away from what you’re doing to return to CCC again and again. The feeling is not unlike a mother’s sweet teary smile when she takes her child’s slightly crushed gift of a pansy from the yard. Infiltration into our club is easy and the best thing you’ll ever do for yourself. So release the writing beast inside you and watch your words sizzle.
Welcome!
Add Dallon & Courtney to the welcome message–and anyone else I might have inadvertently missed. Welcome y’all!
Again, Cathy, you are the Welcome Queen.
Thank you, kind sir. Isn’t it strange that I whip those out even faster than my regular submission. I guess that comes from writing with your heart. Enjoy your weekend.
P.S. Could you correct my typo in knucklehead and unlike? Doh…
Exactly. The magic is alive here at the CCC, so it’s easy to write here. I fixed those for you.
Thanks-now I don’t look so stewpid.
LOVED IT, LOVED IT, LOVED IT, WATCH YOUR PUNCTUATION THOUGH….
THE NAME PANSY HAS THE QUOTATION MARKS GOING IN THE SAME DIRECTION.
Thanks! It was fun and I’ll be back for more!
We’ll see you every Monday and Thursday then! Thanks. How’s you hear of us, by the way?
ps. I just remembed, I’m following you on twitter.
Infiltration across the nation, there must be someone to help this situation.
I switched the TV off, the wars around the world bored me now, a retired political activist without a cause.
I headed outside for a walk in the bright afternoon sunshine and a few minutes later some knucklehead screamed at me to “get back to my own country”
That really freaked me out, I was born in this country, what the hell was all that about?
I took a stroll along King Street and stopped to buy a soda. I’d barely swallowed the first mouthful and felt like I had to take a piss.
The back of the store seemed the most convenient place and I closed my eyes as I listened to my urine sizzle gently on the hot tarmac below.
When I opened my eyes again some pansy looking guy was staring back at me, as I went to zip up he swung the crowbar at my head and….
I woke up in a filthy looking store room and had no idea how long I’d been out for. I saw an empty packet of Demerol tablets on the floor and started to panic.
I was thirsty as hell and there was what looked like a bottle of water a few feet away, I got shakily to my feet and hobbled across towards it.
It was vodka and now I knew I was done for. I tried to shout for help but a garbled mess of unstressed syllables came out just as someone switched on the light, and that’s when I saw the beast…
No reply to my story? it wasn’t that bad was it?
Sorry Jamie. I took the day off cause my back is in such pain, despite my abundant supply of word #3. I commented now though my friend. write on.
Shane: Sorry to hear you’re still having pain. We all must think good, healthy, pain-free thoughts for you. Hey, this community can do anything! Feel better!
Thank you kindly.
That’s awesome Jamie. I bet the best is the man’s own reflection isn’t it! Great write.
Thanks Shane, hope your back is feeling better now? Yeah you’re right, the beast is his reflection. I don’t think we have Demerol here in Scotland, I had to look it up.
Not really. I woke up this morning so sore I couldn’t even consider making it through a shower, so I said bleep it, called in and am relaxing. I need a full weekend being off my ass to heal. Luckily at home, so I can type on my back. Truly awful. I wouldn’t wish this on my enemies. Even for someone like me who their whole life is upbeat and smiles, it takes it’s toll. Good thing I have my kids and the CCC.
That’s terrible Shane, take care and hope you’re back on your feet soon.
I hear ya brother!
I got hit with a car when I was 7 which left me in half a body cast and learning how to walk all over again. I ended up with one leg 1/2″ longer than the other and over the years this ’tilt’ took it’s toll leaving me with 2 prolapsed discs in my lower back. Ive had daily back pain since I was 20 (I’m 43), so when someone says they couldn’t even consider making it to the shower, I feel your pain. I know what you are going through and I would not wish it on my enemies either. Well…. there is that one guy in….. nah, not even him.
Hope you’re feeling better soon
Kenn
Last time I was in the States I got talked into playing softball when I was still jet-lagged. Anyway, I ended up falling and hurting my back really badly. I had to lie in bed for the first 5 days of my 10 day holiday because I literally couldn’t move.
Maybe the next challenge should have 10 words related to backs!
10 words related to backs? That sound like fun it does.
1. Back off – what my wife say’d on our first date
2. Get off my back – what my wife say’d every night since
3. Damn, you back already? – what my wife say’d ev’ry time I come home early
4. I take it back – what I always be sayin to my wife cuz ‘pperently everything I say is wrong
5. Gimme that back it’s mine – what them damn youngins be saying all friggin’ day & night
6. Back the fuck up – what the owners of that all-you-can-eat-buffet say when they see my wife coming
7. Don’t back down – what I did that one time when I stood up to my wife right before she put me in the hospital
8. Back bacon – The great Canadian bacon that tastes mighty good in gumbo
9. Holla back – either its one of them hippity-hoppity rap songs or what my wife does every time I holla at it her
10. Get on your back Billy – my wife say’d that’s my best love makin’ position cuz e’vrything else I do I fuck up
Hope yer feelin better Shane so you can get back to the CCC.
~Bayou Billy
That was brilliant, had me laughing out loud.
Thank you Jamie. Its good to know’d I can make people laugh out loud.
That reminds me, did-cha ever hear the expression “I laughed my head off?” Where’d that sayin’ come from? I ain’t never saw’d nobody laugh so hard their head did the Icobad Crane thing a just fell’d right off. Can you picture it? Ha ha ha, ha ha ha, ha ha plop!
Womens always be saying, “Stop it I’m gonna pee!” How come is it you don’t hear men say that? I guess before womens go to one of them comedy shows they have to wear those adult diapers. What is they call them agin? Oh yeah, Depends. What a stupid name… depends on what? If I had a leakage problem I don’t want nuttin’ called depends…. I wants sumthin’ called “Guaranteed”.
Au revoir,
Bayou Billy
excellent Billy. Thanks.
OMG–there goes BB on CCC again! DDDDarn funny!
Thanks buddy. And I’m sad to hear about what happened to you.
Short form;
I am a knuckleheaded pansy, a beast, a freak, a pissing demerol addict whose infiltration of this site with a crowbar refuses to give it’s unstressed syllables sizzle.
Cleve, you get the CCC Shorty Award thus far. Always great reading your wit.
Betcha your a lot of fun at a party Cleve! LOL Not counting the 10 required words or the I, a, am, to, the’s etc, your submission is about 5 words long. Yep, it’s the front-runner for the CCC Shorty Award.
Long form (even in order then odd in order…);
I’ve known Dan for a year or so. He’s engaged to one of my friend’s daughters and seems like a pretty decent sort of guy. I don’t think of him like the typical knucklehead you see around here. Some of these guys are just freaks. But not Dan. No sir. He was an all star athlete in high school. Real good. I heard that if that kid hadn’t taken after him with a crowbar after the homecoming game he might have received a scholarship to a PAC 10 university. Instead, he joined the military and was recruited into the special forces. He became an infiltration expert, serving two tours in Iraq and Afghanistan behind enemy lines. He told me that he can still hear the sizzle of burning flesh after the last IED attack his group got hit with. If anyone could have gotten into Bin Ladin’s cave hideout, I think it would have been Dan.
The other night he was a little stressed out. Ok, more like REALLY stressed out. I mean, this kid is cool all the time. He NEVER seems to get put out. That’s always been one of the things I really like about him. (That and the fact that I consider him a real life hero! There aren’t many people who have served our country like he has.) He needed to talk, so I listened. In surprisingly unstressed syllables he told me that he had just been told that he was actually a she.
You read that right. He is a She. His demerol soaked, drug addict mother had had his sex changed when he/she was an infant. I couldn’t believe it. Who would EVER do such a thing to their child? And what idiot of a doctor would consent to do such a thing to an innocent baby? PISS!
He’s (she’s) been having some health problems and went to a doctor to find out what’s going on. After multiple visits and tests the doctor told him/her that he/she actually has ovaries. Ovaries. Can you believe this?
(I’m really having a hard time with what to call him. I mean, this kid is no pansy! He/She was a damn fine soldier, and to find this out is affecting me more than I could have imagined. Obviously it’s affecting him/her more than I can even imagine. Anyway, I’ll just call him/her him for the rest of the story. At least until he’s been changed back to a girl.)
When he confronted his mother about this, she told him that she had to have her changed to him. She just couldn’t deal with having a daughter and would have killed her. She believed that she was saving Dan’s life by having Danielle surgically changed to Dan. What a beast!
And you thought you were having a rough day?
Great twisted story, Cleve….never saw it coming!
Wow. Whether that story’s real or not, it packs quite a punch. Thanks for bringing it to the CCC, Cleve.
Wow–never saw that one coming? Who would think you could see unstressed syllables and come up with such genius?
“Burn and sizzle, knucklehead,” my Rice Crispies murmured.
I shushed the unstressed syllables with another Demerol, my head throbbing as if someone had taken a crowbar to it.
“Long night, freak?” asked my pansy-eyed brother, smirking, intent on infiltration.
It was my mission in life to leave the beast disappointed. “Piss off.”
That was so short Sara, but it is one of my favorites. Really, really funny. Well done.
Thank you Shane!
Don’t you hate it when your breakfast talks back to you?
That was great!
I had mornings like that. They even have a medical term for too: Hangover : )
I like your story, Sara – short, sweet, to the point and funny.
Absolutely, Kenn! And thank you! : )
Dubs could hear the sizzle of bacon frying as it hit the pan, sending its tantalizing aroma upstairs. Pots and pans rattling in the kitchen confirmed that Frankie the Demerol freak was already at it, as was his custom during these trips.
Dubs’ head was pounding after a night of heavy drinking. The only thing he wanted more than a mug of strong coffee right now was to take a good, long piss, out the window if need be.
The throbbing in his head felt like someone was hitting him with a crowbar, increasing in intensity with every blow. What a knucklehead, he muttered to himself. You know you’re getting too old for this crap.
Still, he couldn’t let that pansy Kevin get away with taunting him in front of everyone. Just because when he said certain words, like “infiltration,” he always put the emphasis on the unstressed syllables, so it came out like “in-filtration.” Especially when he had been drinking. And last night, he had definitely been drinking.
Kevin found that terribly amusing and kept pointing out the fact to anyone who would listen. It wasn’t long before all the others had joined in the teasing, leaving Dubs no choice but to keep drinking. The alcohol helped to soothe the angry beast that lurked just beneath the surface calm of Dubs’ easy-going demeanor. And now all those whiskey shots were extracting their due, like a bill collector who wouldn’t stop pounding on the door.
Excellent submission Carolynn. Hey is that a new website you’ve got? Don’t think you have one before did you? Great look.
Thanks, Shane…my site is fairly new, still a work-in-process….I guess I am really “exposing” myself to this group!
We have no rules against exposure in the CCC!
In fact, Shane encourages it–metaphorically, of course.
The beast got out of his semi and snuck up on my daddy who was taking a piss by the side of the road and hit him over the head with a crowbar and he fell to the ground like a pansy. But the beast was really a freak. The knucklehead was on demerol. Unstressed syllables whirled in his head, as his brain sizzled with infiltration of the thoughts of what he would do to him.
(based on a true story)
Dallon, welcome to the CCC. Excellent 1st submission, and being based on a true story makes it even cooler. Everyone welcome Dallon to the fun.
Welcome to the CCC Dallon! Great first story, but then I’m a little biased here.
FYI, Dallon’s my 12 year old step son.
His mom and I decided to sick him loose on CCC to give him a little extra fun homework.
I hope you don’t mind.
That’s awesome to hear. If I were to try and guess writing age, I would have said something much higher. Well done Dallon.
Nice!
I skipped ahead, but will catch up this weekend…
******
Walking along the avenue, the sizzle of the rain on pavement, music to my Demoral hazy mind, I hummed a tune, some songs, we used to sing as kids, “On, two, pick up a shoe…” or “Crick, Crack, don’t step on the old ladies back.” The kind of nonsense kids devise, playing games with unstressed syllables. The songs that if you didn’t know or couldn’t sing, made you a freak or a geek or some other outsider. Girls were the worst. They had special songs or chants for hand clapping and jump roping.
Just then, the old brain registered that the sizzle had turned to a stream, looking down, focusing, I noticed that a bum, in the alleyway, had just taken a piss and the yellow steam was rolling down the side walk and into the storm sewer with the rain. The infiltration of contaminants into the nations’ drinking water supply was a short road indeed. If the filters or the chlorine or whatever were off, there was no telling what would come out of the tap. This is why drinking fountains were to be avoided. I know, I know, I was walking on the street in a first world nation, but years ago, I stood on the banks of Ganges and I watched. I was transfixed, for a day I stood and I watched all manner of humanity and beast enter the sacred waters. Some walked in alive and well, only to leave with enough bacterial hitchhikers to decimate a small village. I also watched as fire after fire burned, and the rotten and burning flesh, melting in to a sea of ash and something which resembled melted wax, drip and drift into the murky waters, right upstream from two kids, filling bottles of drinking water, loaded into an ox cart, bound for a city corner, somewhere along the road.
So I ask you, what knucklehead would drink from a drinking fountain having seen the cycle of life, that is water. Actually this could be why I rarely drank water. Water could actually kill a man and just as efficiently as a crowbar to the temple. More violently really, when one stopped to think about it.
Rounding a corner, seeing double now, I watched as a large English bulldog, raised it leg and watered a lone purple pansy, in the tree lawn. Makes you want to think twice about eating those edible flowers which are all the rage these days.
I just tossed out my Chamomile tea!
Nice submission.
Thanks, I had fun with it…
“Wow… wow,” unstressed syllables were all that came out of his mouth.
“You knucklehead, you have a bigger vocabulary than that.”
The infiltration of Demerol was beginning to sizzle the Beast’s synapses.
“Don’t freak,” a gentle command, “the crowbar is necessary if you want me to get you out of there.”
“Don’t be a Pansy,” the slurred words were not meant for an audience, it was merely self-coaching.
“Oh, piss.”
“Not a good thing to hear when someone has a crowbar that close to one’s head.”
I must know more about this story. Continue it in CCC25 will ya!
Unstressed syllables, well sizzle and snap
Piss on the poop and then pee on the crap
A knucklehead nincompoop downs Demoral
While a fat little freak farts all over the wall
What’s that you say? I’m not making sense?
Let me tell you why so you’re not in suspense.
My brain’s feeling beastly, all beaten and battered
Mashed up and mushy and speckled and spattered
Like one little pansy in a field full of brambles
My words are all tangled in syllabic rambles
Still it is cool, even with an infiltration
Of chaos and crazy I still dig creation
A crowbar and hammer can bust down a wall
But I can’t slow my mind down. Nope, not at all
So I’ll throw down my prose, sorry if it blows
But I still got all 10 words in neat little rows.
Don’t matter what time or when
Master-Platt does it again.
sweet… i could read it aloud over and over.
And such creative rows they are, Sean! I just love how one list can create so many, very different responses.
My, my what a potty mouth, I must say
Did I really bring you up this way?
It freaks me out when you say such things
foul unstressed syllables, verbal demons with wings.
Don’t talk like a knucklehead, or you’ll seem like a beast
Please rise above that, as though you had yeast.
No one will think you’re a pansy if you are sweet and tender
I know what a credit you are to your gender!
Like piss on hot concrete words sizzle and burn
Infiltration of naughtiness, our kids don’t need to learn.
Profanity feels like crowbars to the brain
Gentle words are like demeral and cause nobody pain.
So listen to mommy and talk real nice
don’t fuck it up, or I must spank you twice!! (love you, sean!! haha)
That was great Ma. Sean, your thoughts?
The book launch was a success. Over 150 people subscribed to my book and I even sold a couple of hard copies (that was unexpected), but the most staggering news I received today I could probably explain using all 10 words (I think this is my third time for this challenge – is that a record? lol )
Somebody thought it would be a good idea if a knucklehead freak like me would give a presentation to an adult school about being a writer. Now if it was a class I wouldn’t be pissing in my pants – from what I understand, this is a conference. I don’t known much about unstressed syllables, hell I had to look it up, what I do know is even a few shots of demerol ain’t gonna help the butterflies in my belly. I have performed as a singer in front of a huge audience without a problem, but when it comes to public speaking I am a pansy because that’s one beast I could never conquer. Ironically, as a ventriloquist I would sizzle on stage with an act that tore the clubs down, but that was speaking through a puppet. It was my my crutch. I can’t even bring Bayou Billy to this conference because they don’t want that kind of infiltration – they’ll beat me to death with a crowbar because it’s supposed to be a serious, educational talk. So they took away all my crutches – no puppets, no guitar, no singing, no comedy.
So right now my friends, I’m open to suggestions. Those who know me know I have a warped sense of humor but believe me, this is no joke. They actually want me to give a talk at a conference so if any one has any experience and advice to offer, please email me at kenn (at) kenncrawford (dot) com.
Please. Pretty please? Pretty please with sugar on top? : )
Thanks,
Kenn
Kenn, talk about the fear that writer’s have and related it to your public speaking fears. Tell them you are here despite it. You will win them with this short intro.
Besides that, it helps to get there about 30 minutes early and sit among the crowd and get to know a few people in the seats. Once you know their names, they are no longer strangers. You can mention these few names throughout your presentation.
Cool idea Shane, thanks.
Welcome. I was a computer instructor, so I know what it’s like. This technique will definitely help you through. And remember, you are the authority.
Hi all. Be gentle, it’s my first time. ;o)
Bulgari Blue at Breakfast
“Libby Zion dot com,” Grace says.
At my feet, our resident beast is meowing for his breakfast. But the sizzle of sausage and onions demands my attention first. I lunge for the stove, and my momentum carries my gloved hand just a fraction of an inch too far. The skillet slides off the burner, multiple bits of sausage rejoice in their freedom from iron confines, and onions escape as far as the coffee pot three feet down the counter. Far below, the knucklehead feline issues a hopeful noise.
“Demerol,” Graces intones from behind me.
“Piss a crowbar,” I mutter.
“That sounds painful. Jack, you’re not listening.”
“Yes, I am.”
I sling the skillet and its remaining contents into the sink, but the clang doesn’t deafen me quite enough. This day could not be starting out worse. Nick myself shaving with a new razor, so now I’m walking around like a leper with bits of white tissue mold growing on my face. Spill half the human breakfast after I deep-cleaned the whole kitchen yesterday, in anticipation of Grace’s mother. Not that will-o’-the-wisp Frannie will care about something as mundane as the cleanliness of the kitchen–she’d rather tell me how good I’d look in a Renaissance doublet and frills–but still, a guy likes to be presentable to his only mother-in-law. If for no other reason than if he passes inspection, he gets to hide in the garage with his torn-apart Honda Goldwing for the rest of the weekend.
But all of that isn’t really why I’m twitchy enough to trip over the cat and spill breakfast. The reason for my nerves is sitting at the kitchen table behind me, sunlight reflecting from her pale shoulders as Bulgari Blue wafts from the soft places beneath her ears and pulses from the hollow of her throat. That heavy, musky perfume outweighs the greasy sausage by about half a ton.
“You’re not listening,” Grace explains. Her tone informs me that I am five. “You hear everything I emphasize, but you stopped listening to my unstressed syllables the day after we got back from the honeymoon.”
I reach out to turn off the obsolete burner, then turn to face her. Grace sits with her feet in the chair, her bare legs drawn up to her chin, that perfect chin on her knees. Through the glass table top, I can see that she’s wearing my favorite panties. This terrifies me.
“Honey.” My voice is as low and gentle as I can make it. “Please. Don’t do this.”
“You think I’m a freak,” she says, and I wish it were an accusation. But her eyes might be discussing the unseasonably warm autumn we’re having.
“Grace.” I stop. None of it is your fault, I want to say. You’re as weak as the rest of us, without the power to determine the fate of another human being, I want to say. I love you, I want to say. Instead, I blurt, “Tell me about Libby Zion.”
Grace doesn’t miss a beat. ”She got sick in the eighties. She was just a kid, Jack. Not even twenty. It was terrible. They gave her Demerol in the hospital, and it killed her. Libby Zion dot com. That’s what I’m going to call my website. The domain name’s still available.”
“But honey, you’ve never taken Demerol. Why…?”
A sly look steals into her dark eyes, the infiltration of an enemy I thought I conquered long ago. That enemy is my wife’s guilt, the lash with which she tortures herself. He died after she already started loving me, and she will never forgive herself for his death. I understand that now. I’ve glimpsed her guilt, that old enemy, around too many corners in the house I now share with my wife. My achingly beautiful, sweet-natured, horribly tormented wife.
“Why Libby Zion?” I ask Grace.
The sly enemy chuckles in her eyes. ”Don’t be such a pansy, Jack. The death of the innocent. Didn’t you think I’d want a reminder?
Courtney, that was outstanding. Welcome to the CCC. You go easy on yourself; you have some writing chomps. Don’t be shy.
Everyone welcome Courtney to the addiction.
Thank you, Shane.
You’ve got a totally fascinating and fun project going here, and it’s so neat to see all these writers who are part of it!
You should have a website. Check our side links.
http://thegermanygirl.blogspot.com/
Check your link. I got a Page not found error
EDITED FOOTNOTE: I manually entered it and it worked. So I did a side by side with a “copy link location” from your posted link and got this:
http://thegermanygirl.blogspot.com/%C2%A0
when the link is actually http://thegermanygirl.blogspot.com
You copied/pasted that from MS word or something OTHER than a text file didn’t ya?
Haha, no, I did not! Maybe the % and what looks to me like chemical formulas are that pesky smiley. Silly emoticons!
I think the link messed up because I put the smiley right after it. Try here:
http://thegermanygirl.blogspot.com
I think my link messed up because I put the smiley right after it. Try here:
http://thegermanygirl.blogspot.com
Courtney, I added your link to our community links page. Thanks.
Hi Courtney, my name is Kenn. I’m a CCC-aholic.
I thought I could handle CCC and be in control, just have a little on the weekends, but I was only fooling myself. I started having cravings for CCC on the weekdays as well. The Monday morning blues were kicked into submission with a shot of CCC. Within two days that fix was all but gone so by Thursday I needed another hit. It started to affect a lot of the things I was doing, but mostly, the CCC started to affect my writing.
And I’ve never been happier!
Welcome to the addiction, Courtney. Don’t be so hard on yourself. As Shane said, you have some writing chops. “Her tone informs me that I am five.” We ALL know people who talk to us like we are still children and that line speaks volumes to the reader as to how that conversation is going. Well done. I wanna know more about Libby Zion! The way you wrote that little conversation made me Google Libby Zion – fascinating story. Something I would have never have known about were it not for your writing. And if your writing can move somebody to take action, you done good!
Kenn
P.S. CCC-anonymous meets every Monday & Thursday (and everyday in between). Pull up a chair, make yourself at home and welcome to the CCC Family.
LOL, thanks Kenn! If CCC does for my writing what all of you seem to be (threatening?) promising, I’ll be published in no time, so no complaints from this corner!
The Demerol is what did it. I recognized the name but couldn’t remember what the med was used for, so I Wikipediaed it. Like you said, fascinating story, and it gave me the push I needed to get started with my own. Fun stuff.
And there’s no doubt I’ll be back here for more hits.
I strive for peaceful thoughts with unstressed syllables and no room for knucklehead musings. I don’t need Demerol to manage the pain. I keep my freak thoughts quiet and try not to let the world piss me off. A crowbar of cruelty used by some insecure pansy will not pass through my negative-blocking infiltration system. The beast may sizzle but I have the power to keep peaceful thoughts.
So short, yet so top-notch! Great write.
The Homecoming
Katherine awoke the next morning feeling relaxed and stress free. She did not have to freak about her dream from the night before because she didn’t have one. She was contemplating getting a prescription for Demerol to help her chill out and tame the beast within. Katherine wasn’t about to become a pansy and rely on drugs to solve her sleeping problem. She loathed taking pills.
She took a shower, got dressed, and went outside to get the morning paper. A big chocolate Labrador was taking a piss on her neighbor’s tree. Better their tree than mine. “Brutus, you knucklehead, stop that,” said a voice. A man was waving a newspaper at the dog. Brutus took off down the street and ran into this own yard. Katherine smiled at the dog’s infiltration of her neighbor’s yard.
Katherine decided to make scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast. The bacon began to sizzle in the pan; its aroma filled the entire house. She poured herself a big cup of coffee and sat it on the kitchen table. Her breakfast was finished and she couldn’t wait to tear into it. Meeting Genevieve took a lot of her emotionally and physically. She felt like she hasn’t eaten for weeks!
Katherine grabbed a plate and placed her breakfast on it. She sat down at the kitchen table and began to eat and read the newspaper. There was a robbery at a local flower shop. Thieves used a crowbar to break into the place. They stole rare orchids and some cash. Katherine continued to read the newspaper. The unstressed syllables of what she read next hit her like a ton of bricks. Genevieve Bordeaux aka Madame Genevieve of Divine Journey was attacked last night as she was closing her shop. She suffered minor cuts and bruises and is expected to make a full recovery. Katherine starred at the words on the page as if she was in a hypnotic trance. She couldn’t believe it. She looked at the picture and looked at it again. Something caught her eye. She pulled the paper closer to her and she almost fell out of the chair. How could she have overlooked that? The picture must have been taken during the day because Katherine was in it. She began to panic. Then she remembered photographers from the newspaper strolling around snapping pictures for the upcoming jubilee. But still she couldn’t help but wonder if Genevieve’s attack and her picture in the paper had a connection. Maybe she’d have to call in a favor from her friend Mike who is a P.I. in New York. Katherine lost her appetite. Life on Tybee Island was getting more adventurous each day.
Rebecca, this homecoming is quite a ride. Continue on!
Infiltration of the demerol beast is freaking pissing me off. A crowbar to my knucklehead might sizzle the pansy craving so there aren’t any unstressed syllables left.
(More thoughts on sobriety from “Christina” written in about a minute while waiting on my husband’s colonoscopy.)
That was outstanding, and the context in which you wrote it…priceless! You can tell your husband, “I never thought your colon could be so inspirational.”
I bet Loran’s husband isn’t feeling too much like an unstressed syllable!
Oberon Dreams
The druids sat in council, gathered under the Tree of Life, while it yet grew. A heavy ring of stone arches surrounded them, each one a gateway back to their places of refuge, but this was the Highest Place. No man or beast could come here, except by Oberon’s wishes. Still, furtive glances among those gathered suggested some fear of infiltration. Safe from man or beast, but what of these new gods?
Tommy spoke first — “Denathor” to the people of this world, but among the druids he was still Tommy Benford. He ran a hand through his hair, and it trembled. He made this proclamation, to start the proceedings: “I’m freaking out.”
Retagon sneered at him, and said half under his breath, “Ya pansy.” Retagon they called him now, but Tommy remembered him as Duke Brown, a knucklehead from the old world who still seemed like he ought to have a smear of grease across his forehead and a crowbar in his hand. Tommy had never understood what it was Oberon had seen in a Wal-Mart mechanic.
Retagon went on. “Freaking out? I’m pissed.” He made two fists, but had nothing to swing them at. Tommy understood that. They all had power, they all had that desire to fight, but there was nothing to swing at. Retagon went on. “I was there when it happened. Carling and Ellette and Gelsen were with him in the high hall.”
Tommy hung his head. “I hadn’t heard names. I didn’t know who was in on it–”
“They were all in on it,” Retagon snapped back, and every eye in the circle was on him. “Every damn one of them. But it was Alston who led the uprising. He came unbidden — Oberon knew something was up, but he was waiting. ‘Making inquiries.’ Before he got his answers, though, Alston made his move.”
“How did he do it?” Teramor asked, from across the circle. “I’ve been dying to know. A poisoned dagger? That would be his style–”
Next to him, old Dianden shook his head. “Poison wouldn’t touch Oberon. He controls the rules here. I once watched him drink a goblet of Demerol, just to show me he could.”
That got a half-hearted chuckle from everyone in the circle. Half of the druids had been brought here from times that had never known advanced medicines, but all of them had learned their primary role in this world was as caregivers, and Oberon had always made sure they had plenty of antibiotics and anesthetics. It was their special magic, in a world where every farmhand and brigand could work magic if he wanted.
“What was it, then?” From MacArthur, who hadn’t needed to change his name. He was up on his knees, and he looked ready to lunge. Impotent, though, just like Retagon’s clenched fists. Tommy felt more sympathy for him than for any of the rest. MacArthur had always hated Alston, always wanted a shot at leading Oberon’s armies, to show that a man could do just as well as a fairy. There had been rules, though.
And with that thought, came understanding. Even as Retagon gave his answer, Tommy knew what it would be. “Nothin’. Nothin’ but words.” Retagon’s words burned with his disappointment, with a deep betrayal. He had never understood the old rules. “Alston just strides in, big arrogant bastard, and tells him it’s over. In the middle of the Great City, ten thousand loyal subjects all around him, a porterhouse still sizzling on his plate — Alston walks in, says, ‘That’s it, you’re done,’ and Oberon just takes it.”
Tommy shook his head with a weary sigh. “What did he say?”
Retagon rounded on him, “Ain’t you listening? He just told him, ‘I’m the boss now,’ and just like that–”
“What were his exact words?” Tommy’s words were measured, cool, but they cut Retagon off as surely as a slap to the face. The old mechanic frowned, his brows suddenly wrinkling in thought, and Tommy saw the dread bloom in his eyes. He could feel it, in all those around him, too.
Retagon barely forced out the word, “Magic? It was magic? But Oberon’s no more vulnerable to magic than poison–”
“There are older magics,” Timoneth said, the same words that had been on Tommy’s lips.
Tommy nodded. “What did he say?”
Retagon closed his eyes, thinking for a while, and the pain was clear on his face. After a time, his voice rumbled across the circle. “My lord, my liege, my king — your time is done. Your kingdom’s mine, your throne, and all your pets. And all your generals…we stand as one. With confidence, sure hearts with no regrets.”
Someone let out a wail of grief, and Junidor over on the other side of Retagon gave him an angry shove. “You dumbass,” he said, but Tommy shook his head.
“There’s nothing Duke could’ve done.”
Junidor snapped back, “It’s stupid. It’s just poetry. Bastard could’ve made up a rhyme and sent them all home–”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Tommy said. He’d been an English major in another life, and this was exactly what Oberon had picked him for. “The fairies are subject to true words, spoken according to the old laws. It’s not just rhymes, it’s…it’s line lengths and fixed stanzas and…and how you say it. Stressed syllables followed by unstressed syllables, and united in meaning. Every line has to reinforce–”
Timoneth laid a hand on Tommy’s army, and Tommy stumbled to a stop. He took a deep breath, and let it out. “Any of the others could have broken Alston’s spell, if they had but spoken. The rhyme was built on unity, and just one of Oberon’s general dissenting would have been enough to set him free.” He took another deep breath, let it out slowly, then looked around the ring.
He met each druid’s eyes in turn, and then he said. “It’s done. Oberon is dead and his generals have taken over. This world is no longer the one we worked to build.”
“So what?” Retagon snapped. “We’re just going to run?”
“No.” Tommy shook his head with a dread certainty. “We’re going to stand against them. Our circles should be strong enough to keep us safe, but the people of this world will become slaves to the new gods.”
“We can’t fight them,” Junidor said, and across the circle MacArthur snorted.
Tommy shook his head. “It’s not our job to fight. It’s just our job to keep Oberon’s dream alive. We can provide a place of refuge, a voice of reason, and a counterbalance to the fairies’ plans.” He sighed. “The fantasy is over, boys. We’ve got some real work to do, now.”
Aaron, that’s outstanding writing there. Really like how you tell so much, but do us the favor of not telling us everything and letting our imaginations fill in the intriguing holes. Great write.
Aaron, I assume you’ll be writing more of this and not leaving me hanging. Thank you. Epic, anyone? And you know I don’t say that lightly.
Thanks, Courtney and Shane! This one turned out a lot longer than I wanted it to, but I really wanted to get the story tied up (inasmuch as I did, anyway).
This is actually a teaser of a new fantasy series I’m about to start on. The world already exists (and the druids are one of the most fascinating aspects of it), but I didn’t really intend to tell this story at any point in those novels. So it seemed like a good one to CCC.
I had really intended to take advantage of this opportunity to do a shameless plug for my website (Unstressed Syllables: Writing Advice for Everybody!), but once I saw “Demerol” and “Infiltration,” I just had to do the druids story.
Un-stressed syl-la-bles??? What kind of knuck-le-head thinks we syllables are unstressed? Admittedly, some of us have accents out of place, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us are unstressed. To the contrary, that puts the rest of us under more stress. Why, we’ve had stress on us since the English language was first invented, not to mention having to syllabi Japanese, Arabic, Hebrew and bayou lingo. All this causes some of us to suffer from hypertension whereas we have to take tranquillizers and Dem-er-ol to prevent us from turning into zombies or worse, beast. Some of us get pan-sy and effeminate when we are solitude in a word like piss, but collectively we siz-zle when we are in a word like ef-fer-ves-cence. We are the glue that makes words whole and pronounceable.
By the way, don’t confuse hypertension with hyphenation. Hyphenations are the sluts of grammar as they try to mimic sylabling by discreetly employing dashes between whole words. For instance, the words African and American are hyphenated as Afro-American, as if there were some sort of magic in-fil-tra-tion of Africa to America. Sometimes the hyphenated words are so remotely removed from one another, it takes a crow-bar to insert the dash.
In short, we syllables, can be short, long, few, or many and we can change like chameleons, depending on the words we are used in.
So get off our freak-in case and stop saying we’re unstressed.
Outstanding creativity A. Well done, and had me grinning.
A -
I love this! Very creative…who knew syllables needed to chill, too?
Thanks Cathy. I like to get away from myself and become something in-an-i-mate for a change.
Dear Pansy,
“Unstressed syllables” is the password to get into the freak show. Don’t be a knucklehead and roll your eyes at my choice. Infiltration is always a beast at these shows. The Demerol hidden in your purse will come in handy when the flame-swallower starts coming your way. Don’t piss on his fire unless you want to really hear things sizzle.
Affectionately,
Crowbar
okay, you are on fire with your two last posts. Very well done.
My wife said I was a knucklehead who couldn’t get an extra dollar out of his boss with a crowbar.
At first I let her piss me off. What’d that make me? Something less than a man. I hated her, I hated my boss. I started to freak out. I borrowed Demerol from a buddy out on disability to take the edge off, then the whole world seemed to go grey.
When I got ideas that being injured like him was better than being whipped like me, the infiltration of their inside-the-box thinking had taken me over. I had to get out.
When I looked for answers, there was Rob. He’s been there and he’s known plenty of guys like me. When he talked about taking back control, I could feel myself becoming unstressed. Syllables I never thought I’d utter came out of my mouth, at work and where I needed it most—at home! I didn’t just find my voice, I found my balls again. I’m not a caged beast anymore. I’m a man.
Elise stood up and threw the paper she’d been scribbling on across the room. “That doesn’t say anything!” Max, her poodle, skittered out of the room. He didn’t like the look of things and he wasn’t hanging around to be moral support for a writer in an ethical quandary—again.
Sell the sizzle, not the steak, she reminded herself. The people who read Rob’s ads eat this stuff up. As she stared into the backyard for the will to go on, the pansy outside her window gave her a knowing wink.
Oh, well. Beats flipping burgers. She picked up the offending copy and grabbed her favorite purple pen.
“—Signed, Joe from Chicago”
Bleepin’ Outstanding! Love what you did the unstressed syllables, too.
Yeah, that was really clever. I like it.
Thank you both. Glad you like it. Elise hasn’t been around since the first challenge I did and she’s been anxious to make a return appearance.
Lordy I love CCC.
Mosquitoes were buzzing in my ears, the little beasts in a frenzied feast. I peer out cautiously from half-opened eyelids, the sun is horribly painful and good god, is it always this bright in the morning? It feels like my brain is being sizzled or maybe even boiled like an egg within the shell of my cranium. Slowly I raise my head, spitting out the petals of what appear to be a pansy and some blades of grass from my mouth. Where am I? What did I do? What day is this?
The last thing I remember is taking a handful of demerol just to take the edge off. I think that was on Friday night because I had an especially hard day of work and ended it with a bang. Groan… the infiltration of the memory into my current reality is painful.
I had been at the end of an extremely long 8 hour shift of being on my feet all day at a cash register at the local grocery. My bunions ached and I had a dull throbbing at my temples that was threatening to evolve into a full blown migraine. Some old bat was calling me to the lowest, her nasally voice generating a steady monotone of unstressed syllables. She felt she should be allowed through the 10 item only aisle even though she had a full cart. Apparently I was a knucklehead because couldn’t I see that she couldn’t wait in those long lines and that a woman of her age deserves special treatment. At that point, I didn’t freak out, I just calmly closed my register, put up my aisle closed sign and proceeded to climb up onto the conveyor. I then pulled my company issue polyester slacks down around my ankles and politely pissed in her purse. At which point I was promptly escorted to the door by security and on the way out of the parking lot, I threw a crowbar or a tire iron or whatever the hell that thing in my trunk was into my boss’ car window.
I suppose that at least if today is Monday, I don’t have to worry about being late for work. Now if I can just figure out where I left my pants.
@Lisa: OH…MY…GOD! That was outstanding. Too funny. You keep doing what you do!
The Medallion
(Part 2 of 4)
“Is that…the meh-dahl-yun?” I asked the waitress, in flat, unstressed syllables. I didn’t want anyone to overhear my excitement. Actually, I was about to piss myself, and could barely keep from freaking out. The aftereffects of the Demerol from the Lift were gone in an instant as I became fully alert, on guard, and on the case.
I’ve searched the Net for years for The Medallion. I’ve crawled ancient backwaters for clues, monitored hundreds of thousands of inane social-media streams at once, for days, hoping to overhear an allusion with even dim flicker of merit. To wander into a cafe on the Moon and see the damn thing hiding in the cleavage of the waitress was unbelievable. It had to be a trap. But I’m no pansy, so I took the bait in my teeth and held on. Metaphorically, of course; I don’t know the waitress that well.
“The meh-what?” she said, scurrying off to serve the next table.
I sipped my drink, and plotted infiltration. Obviously, I would have to follow the waitress until she gave the game away. Which means I would need a spacesuit. I paid my bill and headed for the shopping zone.
The walk was easy – low gravity, plenty of handholds, and you get used to the long loping gait quickly. The mild ambient light from every surface was perfect, leaving everything visible but not stark. I liked it, and wished my office was like that, instead of the one bare lightplate in the ceiling that my partner liked. I wondered what he was up to, and was glad he wasn’t here to annoy me. Twenty-eight lopes and I found what I was looking for: a cheap, compact spacesuit. I bought it and skipped back to the cafe. Luck was with me (probably because my partner wasn’t!) and the waitress left work just a few minutes later.
I follwed her casually from a safe distance. I was surprised that she had her own Rover, and wondered how a cafe waitress could afford one. But she wasn’t really a cafe waitress, she was bait from the Cult of the Medallion, and I was the Fish of the Day. I slipped into the spacesuit and walked out the airlock.
She had a good head-start, but the Rover left obvious tracks to follow, even by starlight. The view was incredible. Since I was on the Dark Side of the Moon, I couldn’t see the Earth and the Sun was eclipsed since it was ‘night’, but the wall of stars and gas took my breath away. I gawked like a knucklehead for far too long, and had to hurry to keep the Rover in sight.
If I hadn’t been in such a hurry, I might have noticed the crater soon enough to stop. It was relatively new, probably less than a million years old, but fairly deep. I loped over what I though was a boulder and fell into the crater, spinning and falling in slow-motion. I blacked out when I hit bottom, and woke up to a sizzle. The Sun crested the crater wall and began boiling the moisture out of my suit from a small crack in the helmet. I stood up slowly, and saw my partner lying on the crater floor. At least I wouldn’t die alone.
The best thing about low gravity is how high you can jump. My partner urged me up and on. I scaled the crater wall in leaps and bounds, feeling like a great beast on a wild run. At the top I saw Rover tracks leading to a small, spindly structure.
The structure was old and covered in moon-dust. Parts of it were apparently gold-plated in its heyday. I found a flagpole nearby and used it as a crowbar to pry open the door. My air was running low, and my suit was straining to fight back the heat. The shelter was welcome, though tiny. I clambered and wiggled into it and forced the door closed. My partner stayed outside, out of sight.
It was hard to see inside, as the lights from my suit were growing dim. I estimated I only had enough air and power left for another hour, maybe two. Then I saw it: the blue Medallion on the wall. My shelter was a Shrine! Now all I had to do was live long enough to tell someone about it.
[to be continued...]
@Steven: Super. Super indeed.
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