Be Excellent To Each Other

Hello, lets be creative this friday. Lets write a short story. I'm talking very, very short story, written very very quickly. Don't worry about polish, spelling or none of that jazz. Basically take the time you would have spent writing a few posts and craft a little tale.

Bonus points if it's not about people on the forum (though thats ok too).

I'll go first.

Jesus wept.

For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.

Alien Credit Crunch, by me Mr Lave station.

When people talked about aliens before The Crash no one guessed how it would play out.

It wasn't art, or music which bound the Alliance together. It wasn't even language. The differences between us in those areas was unsmountable.

It was the stock market. Only maths. And the abstract concept of applying a varying worth to abstract ideals that was the common feature between species. That is why Earth is now a paupers house.

Why? Because it is hard to work a 24 hour market when one else in the Galaxy spends half their life lying motionless whilst hallucinating massively. No amount of Sleep Disability Benefit and Equality laws can help.

Sleep fucked us.

Very good

Mark the Gnome woke sweating. That same dream over and over. "Will this never end?" he mumbled as he slid out of bed slipping into his skirt and stilettos. He looked out of his window, most of the crowd were still there, half dead now. The 'special' cakes had hit the spot.

After his morning coffee and Worthers he began the daily task of hauling in the corpses, picking through their belongings for barcodes. "How many does he need? I can't do this forever", he growled under his breath. He knew deep down that if he ever wanted to be free from the stall holder, there would be years more of this warped harvesting.

Thanks the idea (both actually) came from me just waking up and pondering how weird sleep is. A bit like how Seinfeld would, but without the funnies and so terribly alone.
/commentary track.

EDIT: Zardoz!

Bertie Badger lived under a tree
Bertie Badger drank some tea
Bertie Badger ate a pea
Bertie Badger caught TB
And so he ran away to sea
To escape from all the culling.

Simon Snail why so slow?
Simon Snail where do you go?
"I'm running away towards the sea
To find the badger with TB
Who has ran away to sea
To escape from all the culling."

Simon and Bertie in a boat
Simon and Bertie and a stoat
Who had put on his best coat
To find the badger with TB
Who had run away to sea
To escape from all the culling.

Simon, Bertie, a stoat named Joe
On the sea where the wind does blow
Trying to make their small boat go
Trying to make the sails grow
Simon, Bertie and the stoat named Joe
Escaping from the culling.

Bertie and Joe and Simon Snail
Letting out an almighty wail
Their boat was battered by the hail
And so they all die under the sea
Because of a badger with TB
Who didn't escape the culling.

It always came down to this. No matter what the situation, no matter who you were dealing with, it always came down to one thing...

Could you jump The Gap?

What gap? you might ask, and if you did then it would mark you out as someone who had never lived in the flats. Just in case you have never had the joy of living in the flats "The Gap" was the space between a 5ft high wall and a 7ft high wall. The distance between the walls was about 8ft, and the walls themselves were about a foot wide and topped with white paving slabs. These 2 walls acted as an entrance way into what we called the playground, in reality it was a forecourt for the flats. But we used it for everything, from playing football, to riding our bikes, from having bomfires and barbeques to water fights and paddling pools.

At one end there was a gate and if you couldn't jump the gap you had a chance to semi redem yourself, you could try and walk across the gate instead of jumping the gap, but lets face it, if you couldn't jump the gap what was the chance that you would be able to walk across the gate? Pretty slim I'd say.

The first time you tried to jump the gap you would start from the higher wall, and jump across to the lower one. This was fairly easy, and most people could do this on their first attempt. The true gap jumper would need to be able to jump both ways and euphamisms aside, this was the only way you would be accepted as a resident. Either that or have really cool toys that everyone wanted to play with.

Malc

The Pin is mightier than the Sword.

Joseph Garner had an idea. His idea was to produce a small, yet sharp point of metal. This would be small enough to carry in a pocket yet strong enough not to bend easily. The only problem was that Joseph didn’t know what to use his device for. It was too small to fend off wild animals yet too pointy to handle in a careless manner.

Then the idea hit him.

Joseph got in touch with electronics giant Sony and advised them of his product. He proposed that they get rid of the bulky “reset” button that was found on the original Playstation and replace it with a small hole that would hide the all important control. This would ensure that the button could only be pressed if the consumer purchased one of Josephs inventions.
Sony agreed with this with no haste and demanded a27% cut in the sales in exchange for calling the item… the Pin!

Various other electronics companies followed suit leaving Joseph Garner to enjoy a life of relative luxury in a decent sized detached house in Wolverhampton. You can still see Josephs item in use today after he signed a lucrative deal with all Asian call centres to promote the use of his pin to consumers who were facing problems whenever an electrical item went wrong.

The End.

It was a Thursday. Mr Chris could never get the hang of Thursdays. He didn't know whether it was because he'd already worn his three favourite cardigans this week, or because he had a strange nagging feeling that he shouldn't have bought the Volvo after all.

Malc

That was a good one Malc.

It were reet good, malc.

Funny story: My best mate told me my wife was having it off with another man, or men, so I got a bit angsty and killed her. Turns out, she wasn't. Whoops.

I'd been watching the ceiling sag and crumble above me for hours before I crawled into the debris-dotted hallway. I hadn't moved earlier because it never occurred to me that I might not actually be dead. Then something outside - it may have been an animal, or the wind flooding through an exposed pipe, or nothing at all - produced a sound akin to whistling. A pathetic sliver of hope speared my breast. It flickered for barely a moment, but it was enough to convince me that I'd drawn the short straw and remained irrefutably and damnably alive. Because death, I had realised at some point during those interminable hours tracing the expanding concatenation of cracks in the ceiling, is a place beyond hope and therefore beyond suffering. And I was definitely suffering.

A cold and cheerless light peered through cracks in the collapsed doorway at the end of the passage. As I lay amid the rocks, the chunks of plaster and the shattered glass, I tried to project my mind into the future. If I could just strugge to my feet; if I could negotiate the hallway; if I could clear an opening without disrupting the new and delicate balance of material which was still supporting the building, a balance more precarious and vulnerable and beautiful than any human hand could have made it. If I could do all that - what then?

But I stood up all the same.

It had been a strange day. All I could smell is toner and sweat. The cloying sense of inadequacy was pouring from everyone in the room and it has begun to melt my sanity. Frantic typing and gasps of despair led to cries for assistance. "How do you double space?" was a common bleat.

I never saw the shooter. He must have crept up behind my desk while I was on the phone. The barrel of the gun was warm. That surprised me. The bullet was hot. That didn't.

I wonder who'll fill the paper trays now?

"I'm in love with the female lead, she mustn't find out"

"I'm in love with the male lead, he mustn't find out"

They do.

The Count of Six's entry is excellent.

Indeed it is.

Every one has been amazing.

Except this one. THE END.

A lovely summer day, the outdoor swimming pool filled with everyone desperately trying to get a break from the heat. Children splashing in the paddling pool and one or two serious swimmers dodge around bodies trying to play water polo. John, Michael and Samantha had just arrived and were getting changed underneath their towels. "Hey, John!" Shouted Samantha even though John was no more than a foot away "You still a scaredy cat or are you going to actually climb to the top of the diving board today?"

"You know I don't like heights." John shivered at the thought of the diving board despite it being barely 10 feet from the ground.

"Pussy!" Michael shouted at him "I've done it loads of times, even from the high one at the swimming pool!"

"I just don't like it!" John shouted back, indignant "Race you to the pool!"

The three kids rushed down to the pool and tried to find a spot to jump in among the sea of people! "EEEEEEEEEEEK!" Shrieked Samantha as she hit the water "It's bbb bblooody ff ff reezing!"

The others laughed at her though they too felt the shock but it was all part of the fun. Michael jumped backwards and kicked his legs in the water to spray it all over Samantha who then swung her arm round skimming the top of the water causing a wave to soak Michael. The three happily swam and played in the water for some time before Michael piped up "Let's go to the diving board!"

Samantha in agreement they drag John with them despite some protestations but he was in a good mood after all the fun in the water. Michael went first with something of a bomb dive, splashing water everwhere. Samantha dived much more elegant with barely a ripple. "Come on your turn John!" Samantha urged

Fear suddenly gripped John. His dislike of heights getting the better of him. "No.. I really don't want to."

"Go on sissy!" Samantha teased

"Yeah even a girl can do it" Taunted Michael

They shoved John to the steps of the diving board and John reluctantly started climbing. At the top he was terrified. He could barely move. But there were many eyes on him. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't turn, he couldn't go on but he couldn't stand the shame of failing. Michael had climbed after him to prevent his return. He was stuck in a terrible situation. Nowhere to turn. He cracked "I... I.. don't want to do it. P p lease let me come down."

Michael saw the true terror on his friend's face and realised what an idiot he'd been. He climbed to the top and offered a helping hand to John. John grabbed the hand in mortal terror crushing the bones. "Come on John, it's okay you can come down.. I'm helping."

John inched forward but a foot was placed wrong. He slipped. He fell. His head and neck cracked as they hit the concrete floor.

Michael The Mad Axeman

Once upon a time there was this madman who went round chopping people up with his axe 'Herman'. He and Herman had such fun times together such as the time they went to Skegness...

That day, when Michael The Mad Axeman woke, he felt he was bored of Grimethorpe and needed some excitement in his life. So he went to the train station and got on the train to Skegness. "May I see your ticket, sir?" Said the Inspector

Of course Michael hadn't paid and had no intention of doing so and just chopped the guard up. He was easy. All it took was a nice quick swing into the guts then a good chop down onto his head, splitting it into two. Oh how the blood spurted and ran down the walls! Time seemed to fly from then on until he reached Skegness. He left the station and headed for the seafront. On the way he got asked the time by some holiday maker whom he dispatched with a powerful upward swing between his legs. Oh how he screamed! When he arrived at the seafront he really set to work! Chop! Chop! All day long. He almost lost track of time. But still whne he got home he was pleased to be back home and so brutally butchered a family for the hell of it. That night he slept really well.

The End

I have a thousand word one that I wrote recently, given specific parameters over word count, title and first line... shall I post that here or is it too long?

I wish all stories were about this length. But anyway 1000 words.. might be a bit long. Might get a bit tl;dr

Here's another one of my old super short stories:


The papal blessing hadn't gone well. Pope Bob slumped in his comfy recliner, letting out a sigh of despair. He went over the blessing again in his mind, wondering where it went wrong. "Tea Vicar?" chirped the voice of Doris, his live in maid and companion.

"It's Pope, Doris." He moaned a correction

"Silly me, always get the two mixed up."

"That's okay, thank you for your kindness." She was a little advanced in years so it was forgivable "I've been running through the blessing again, Doris." He sipped his tea, frowned a little, she had forgotten the sugar again "What do you think went wrong?"

"Well," She said as he put some sugar into the cup "If you ask me, it was probably.. well I don't mean to be rude.." She paused, hesitant of criticising

"Go on" He urged

"Well it was probably the oven gloves that were a bit inappropriate."

I don't think it comes under 'extremely short', but I'd be interested in reading it anyway.

There once was a man from Nantucket, who reputation caused him extreme difficulty when applying to be a Midwife. I heard he moved to LA, or something like that.

I shall PM it to you later. Now though, I must attend a meeting.

Joseph was walking through the woods near his home. It was a bright summer afternoon, with birds twirling around the tree branches going about their daily lives. Just this morning, he'd turned 21. It isn't very often that your birthday happens to coincide with Friday the 13th, but he wasn't going to let that deter his plans for celebration.

Tonight was going to be fantastic, with friends from all over the country travelling down to his sleepy little village for a massive house party. He'd been very careful not to advertise the party on Facebook or any of those places, he knew what would happen and how his parents would react. Still, it would only be another two months before he moved out of his parents' home and into his own apartment with Katie, his girlfriend.

He'd met Katie when he was just 16, fresh out of school and into the world of higher education. She was a year older than him, with hips to die for and a smile that could melt even the coldest man's heart from 100 yards away. They'd been together for almost five years now, and there'd been some talk of engagement. Secretly, Joseph wondered whether he was ready for that level of commitment.

The walk through the woods was a journey he made almost every day, on the way to work at the local Audi garage. The wood was popular with dog walkers and ramblers, at this time of year the trees created a spooky atmosphere, especially at the denser parts of the wood where the sunlight found it harder to force its way through.

Joseph's mobile phone chirped in his pocket. Reaching to get it, he spotted a digital camera half-buried in the dry leaves. A quick glance at his phone showed a text from Katie - "happy birthday baby c u 2nite luv u" and he smiled inwardly.

Picking up the digital camera, he saw that it was slightly scratched and had what looked like a spot of dried blood on the screen. Other than that, it looked like it was pretty new. He pressed the power button and was surprised when the camera beeped and the lens popped out into view. Switching it to "playback", he started to thumb through the photos stored on the camera. He recognised the person in all of the photos - Mark, a friend of his from the pool hall down the road from the college. They both spent a lot of time at the pool hall, although Mark usually had no trouble beating him at the baize.

When he arrived at the last photo, his face sunk. He saw Mark, lying on the ground amongst the leaves. Mark's head was no longer attached to his body, and was sitting just to the side of his neck, blood everywhere.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack behind him. He pivoted around on the spot, just in time to see the face of his killer before the cricket bat connected with his head.

The Cheese and Wine Party by Steve

Two well dressed gents are having a conversation in a large conservatory off the side of a stately home.

Phil: My this cheese is simply divine isn't it.
Barry: Yes this ginger and apple Roquefort is sumptuous. Where ever did you get it?
Phil: Tescos.
Barry: And this sparkling white has such a delicate bouquet. And a sweet aftertaste not unlike the slight hint of blossom on a spring afternoon breeze. What did you say it was called again.
Phil: Lambrini.


Fin

65536 snails on treadmills hoped to generate enough power to switch on their new super computer 'Deep Slug'. At 98% power, 17179869184 starlings swooped down, switched off their treadmills, cracked open their tracksuits and ate them.

[spoiler]Would it be an historical document?

Barnaby scrunched his eyes tightly closed, his face contorted and flushed bright crimson, as he squeezed out the last remaining drop. The white sticky substance finally shot out as the sweat ran down his puffed red cheeks. He caught his breath and dipped his finger into the ooze, collecting some on his finger. Licking the glistening wet substance, he cocked his head. Quite sweet, he thought proudly.

"Barnaby, have you finished icing that cake yet?" his wife shouted from the dining room. Barnaby thought she'd been under a fair bit of stress of late.

"I'm nearly done, darling" he said in what he hoped was a compliant tone of voice, as he slurped down a blob of sugary goodness stolen from the cake.

"You know," said his wife breathily as she came through the doorway, visibly aroused, "I have always found cakes very... how would you put it... erotic..." She touched her face faux-bashfully, leaning over the breakfast counter provocatively.

Barnaby sighed. He had been entirely unable to rise to the occasion of performing his conjugal duties with his wife since his tour of Korea. How many more times could he deny her, when she must be suspecting what he could do on his own ... or with certain other company. She would know the full truth soon, he was sure.

Whilst he collected his thoughts, his wife leaning her cleavage ever nearer, the wireless which had been playing his favourite polkas suddenly crackled and popped with static distortion and a newsreader's voice cut through.

President Kennedy had been assassinated!

Gah, Kennedy the cock-blocker!

Not content with plugging up all the top totty in the nation personally, he had to go and do that too.

You owe me the other semi, Mr Chris.

Do two make a 'bonk on'?

I should have followed her. When she dashed out of the building, I should have followed her. We could have talked properly then, and nobody at work would have minded. And it wouldn't have been as awkward as suddenly bringing it up again later, so ...

I should have just kept my mouth shut and waited until we went out again.

I should have told her how I felt instead of handing her that letter.

I should have sent those letters instead of keeping them in my room.

I should have hugged her.

I should have said I knew about his drinking, and tried to help

I should have got off my arse and tried harder to get work instead of killing myself over her all day every day.

I should have called after the funeral.

I should have gone to visit on his birthday.

I should have stayed in canterbury

I should have apologised

I should have just grabbed her and kissed her until the music stopped.


I should I should I should.

It doesn't help. It really doesn't help.

I should go to bed.


But I probably won't.

Window on the World

"Come here, let me show you something," and he pulled her to the top of the embankment, swayed a moment with a foot upon the rail, then pulled her across and down to the fence. He stared across a long, scrubby, moonlit garden that held a broken fridge, spilling its guts of broken toys and dirty plastic bags out over the lawn. She kept glancing nervously, left and right, up and down the silent tracks.

"We've a good sixteen feet clearance. Perfectly safe. Look, Becky," and he pointed at the bottom window, lit with a strange flat brightness from within. He pulled out a pair of binoculars, and stared through them eagerly, almost hungrily.

"It's a window, John," she sighed, sleepily.

"No, no, look closer. Look inside." And John handed her the glasses. "See the people? She's washing dishes, wearing a floral apron - did you ever see anyone today wear anything like that? And the man, he's wearing a tanktop... and look at those spectacles, and that pipe."

She held the glasses to her eyes, snatched a glance, and turned back to him. "So?"

"So?" John snapped. "So? Just look, deeper. Soak in the detail of that place."

"This is creepy, really. Too creepy, you're a voyeur John."

He laughed curtly. "Oh yeah, I get a kick out of watching women wash up. This is something else, Becky. Something... something quite beautiful. And I need you to understand this, because it's really special to me. Please, look..."

She gazed into the kitchen. They were talking, smiling. The man had thick black hair, the tanktop the green she associated with garden sheds and watering cans, his spectacles with lenses a perfect circle. He looked so much like an earnest young left wing writer out of the BBC archives, and the woman... her oval face and brown unfussed hair, beads around the neck and her slightly oriental shirt... she reminded Becky of someone out of that old sitcom, from the seventies... the one about...

She dropped the glasses and they clattered against the edge of the wooden fence, swung against her chest. "So... so they're those people. The sort who like to live retro lives." She laughed, suddenly, with relief, "You know, the types that watch, "Hey! It's the Seventies!" and plan fondue parties. They're very funny John... thank you," she whispered, pulling the glasses to her eyes again.

He shook his head. "Fifties actually, I've checked, and no, that's not it at all. I think you know it too. Look at that garden, it's a shit-hole Becky. I've watched the current owners in the garden in my morning commute, completely different people. You know I hate the 'c' word, so I'm going to call them trash instead; a balding fat fuck with a can in his hand, four screaming kids with bits of wood and crowbars smashing that fridge there. Sometimes they turn to throw stones at the train. But at night, after work, when I swing past in the moonlight, the others live there. Those good people."

She stared harder and harder, turned her examination upon the upstairs bedrooms with the orange curtains, tied back flush against the frames, and with a surprise that dawned upon her slowly, open windows. And that same strange light. "They must spend a lot on heating."

"It's daytime inside." He said it matter-of-factly.

She started, stepped back sharply from the fence, let the glasses fall and put a hand to her mouth with a low moan.

He stared forward, kept staring, a fierce desire burning within him - a desire to be somewhere else, somewhere idyllic. With a dreamlike voice he spoke, softly, yearningly, "Before the suburbs behind us came about. Before they paved over the hills and old built a Tesco Extra on old Goose Hill. When there were no more than a half dozen cars to each avenue and street. Listen carefully Becky, can you hear the radio... it's... I don't know what it is... but they're talking about Eden. It's all about Eden."

Her eyes started wildly over the impossible windows, no need for the glasses now, the details were tearing at her - the ducks upon the wall like at her grandmother's, greens and greys and flapping their way across the yellow wallpaper. The porcelain dogs upon the windowsill, the faded National Rail poster, the more she stared the more she felt herself being drawn in, the more tangible the feeling of a shimmering mass of an impossible time at the foot of a long, ruined garden. Items out of sight welling up and jumbling into view, climbing through the windows at her - jigsaws and newspapers and a wireless set and old soaps and bottlegreen socks and brylcream and Penguin books and... and... and...

"Oh! Not quite, the radio, it's about Anthony Eden!" he exclaimed, in amused delight. "Still, I've been looking so long. Looking so long. So strange when I first realised, I thought I was going to be sick," and he was blabbering now, hands clasped together like a pilgrims, "... so strange it was, so strange. And yet beautiful, the land of my fathers. Just think, a land of a million corrugated Anderson shelters... but as musty sheds, and push-lawnmowers, and... and allotments! And tomorrow, I'm going round, for the first time, yes going round, to visit."

She screamed. She screamed and staggered backwards, flailing her way up the embankment. She never saw it coming, never heard, and the scream was cut off as the train piled into her, pulling her away, away, away up the tracks and into the modern land.

He never heard her, he was being pulled in another direction, and the people at window; the man who tamped his pipe, and the woman who scrubbed, well, they just smiled, looking out across their lawn, their perfect, beautiful lawn, and the steam engine that chugged its way up the narrow gauge, so like the one on the poster upstairs.

It turns out, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button contains no special effects. Brad Pitt was method acting so hard, he turned into an old baby.

Here's one I prepared earlier.

CREEPER

I stepped carefully into her bathroom and quietly locked the door behind me. Turning my head slowly from left to right, I took in the scene. My palms began to feel sticky. My pulse quickened; I could feel it in my temples. Walking over to her sink, I picked up her toothbrush and put it in my mouth like a lollipop. I sucked at the bristles, hoping to get a taste of her. I put it down, foiled, and stroked the bar of soap next to the hot tap. I rolled it over in my hands, inspecting it closely. Nothing.

I knelt down by her toilet bowl and peered into the water, a drop of sweat tumbled from my brow into the clear water with a singular “plop”. There was nothing of her there. I stood too quickly, which made me feel faint for a moment, or was it the thought of her? I unzipped myself and took out my penis. Her toilet paper was pink and soft. I threaded my stiff cock through the centre of the roll and glanced at myself in the large mirror on the wall, pulsing the muscles in my crotch, making the decoration at my groin wobble up and down. I did this for a few seconds then tidied myself away. Restraint was my forte.

Brushing her shower curtain aside with one arm, I stepped into her bath. On all fours, I put my nose close to the plug hole and looked down into it. Something glistened inside, but it was dark and deep down there and my fingers were too thick, I knew, to fit into the little holes. I about-faced on my hands and knees and did a sweep of the enamelled surface of the bath. There was barely a smudge, and certainly no footprints. Fastidious, this one.

The hand towel was dry, and looked freshly laundered. It hadn't been touched by her so I couldn't feel the dampness removed from her skin. I squashed it against my face in any case and drew a deep breath through it. Typically, it smelt faintly of flowers. I didn't know which variety, it was not a strength. I neatly placed the towel back on the rail on the wall and then walked back over to the sink.

I stared into my eyes, and the sight was reassuring. Reflected between us was an infinite exchange of light, arcing away into an impossible curve. I thought of her trapped in every image, drawn inside my skull, haunting my senses. I grabbed at the soap again and bit a piece off the corner. My teeth marks were flat and even. I twisted my head and spat into the toilet. The bar went into my pocket for later.

The door handle rattled loudly. Adrenaline spiked into my bloodstream. There was nowhere to hide. It rattled again and I felt a body move against the door. I gulped and readied my mouth for speech.

“Sarge?”

I said nothing.

“Sarge, you in there?”

“Yes.” I croaked, “What is it?”

“She's been spotted, Sir. Somewhere up North. By a bus driver. The car's waiting.”

“Ah.”

“Oh, and Sarge.”

“Yes?”

“The old dear wants to use the bathroom.”

I yanked the handle, flushing away my indulgence.

“Coming.”

Resu-rectum.

This just came to me.

Christopher Wilson had killed 4 girls already, it was 1:29am. His fifth was standing at a bus stop about half a mile from the large suburb he lived in. He lit a cigarette
as he approached. "Cold Night isn't it?", he said as he walked up to wait for the bus. The girl smiled and nervously said "yes". Chris could
sense the suspicion and fear on her. Because of this he walked away and slightly behind her while he dragged on his Marlborough Red.

Twenty four seconds later he saw her relax a little and grabbed her by the neck. He forced her down on to the pavement and began squeezing the
life out of her.

"You don't want to do this, I can see it in your soul" were the words she uttered as she neared unconsciousness. This made Chris stop for a second. He loosened his grip on her
throat. For three seconds he did nothing, then he smashed his forehead into her face, breaking her nose. Rage took over him and he punched her 8 times with his right hand.
Removing this constraint allowed oxygen to her brain. This had the unfortunate effect of causing her to scream. Wilson
quickly throttled the rest of the life out of her. He left her corpse on the path. He had blood over his face and clothes. It didn't matter.

Hopefully not while waiting at a bus stop.

My name isn't Chris

I thought it said Christopher Walken, at first.

My brain saw Christopher Robin.