Monthly Archives: July 2011

Star Crossed

“Why you gotta be frontin’?” she yelled as her friends and ponies tried to hold her back.

This was starting to irritate Luna, who had been living w/ this pressure for the past 5 years. Running into Star, her stomach turned

beneath her purple dress. But she couldn’t let Star know that. Instead, she kept yelling, puffing out her chest, acting tough.

“Take that nasty ass blonde weave outta my face. You ain’t foolin’ no one, biatch,” she continued.

Luna lunged at Star, grabbing her hair. Pony, the pink pony, tried to separate them. “My hair!” screamed Star. “Give it back!”

Luna waved the weave defiantly as Star watched in horror, hairless. No one knew why Luna was livid, just that she was.

“Who did you sleep with to get to model the ball gown?” Luna whined. She was stuck in a jumper that was more appropriate to Skipper.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” sneered Star. “Yes I would,” responded Luna candidly. “That’s why I asked.” Star was caught off guard.

“You always think you’re so much smarter than everyone, Luna,” said Star. “But if you’re so smart, how come I’m in the ball gown?”

Mother knocked on the door. “Star, honey, please open up. Maybe you should put the dolls down and come to dinner with us.”

“My precious… my precious unicorn ponies,” Star mumbled incoherently. Then, louder, “Coming, mother. Just a second.”

Star’s mother worried about her. Star didn’t leave the house much, and she was always trying to shave Luna, their cute Pomeranian.

In fact, ever since she’d fallen asleep while watching a Jem marathon, Star hadn’t been the same. Ears raw from the many rounds…

of ear pulling, she’d taken to walking around the house in bejeweled stirrup pants. Her homework was signed Jerrica Benton. It…

reminded Mother of her Aunt Jeanne, upstate in a sanitarium. Poor Jeanne – half Carol Burnett, half Ethel Merman. Mother wasn’t…

about to let another daughter end up like Jeanne, not again, not again…

Not after she already lost Astor, her oldest. Most days, you could find her staring at doors, trying to open them with her eyes.

“Kids!” Mother yelled. “Time to go to Olive Garden!” Mother and Star went outside, but Astor stood still, staring at the doorknob.

Astor petted Luna. “It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again.” Mother gave up and promised bread sticks.

Star came back inside to get Astor and dragged her away from Luna. But when they got outside, Mother was nowhere to be found.

They searched for her inside and out, noticing her car was still in the driveway. Where could Mother have “flown” to this time?

Luna heard Star mumbling to herself, “mommy in the can… mommy… the garbage.” Luna’s eyes widened in horror. She runs towards

their garbage can, behind the car. Tears are welling up, in her eyes as she reaches to open the lid. She gasps, shocked by what she

just realized – Luna, the Pomeranian, not only understands what humans say, but can move around like one too. Star’s jaw drops.

Hiding inside of the garbage can, was her mother, Luna always feared this day would come. Her aunt Jeanne had the same

…fate. Star is stunned. Like a robot she starts tweeting feverishly instead of calling 911. All of the sudden…

she gets a DM from her father, who had been in prison for the past 10 years and was now…ON TWITTER?!

Luna can’t help noticing the perplexed look, on Star’s face. What’s wrong with her; and why hasn’t she called for help? Then

without any warning their mother jumps out of the garbage can, tears all of her clothes off, running down the street screaming…

…”I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!!” to which Luna (now human form) and Star looked at each other and shrugged. Meanwhile, Father was

contemplating, as he braids his lover’s hair. Should I tweet her? Such a delicate child; but she needs to know, I’m in love with…

in love w Ricky Martin… He bangs, he bangs! Here we go! Closet drummer, too. He starts to tweet her &…

then gets distracted by THE HONEY BADGER! Like the Honey Badger he said, “I don’t care. I don’t give a sh*t!”

“Whoa watch out, says that bird (from a bird’s eye view). Star still hasn’t heard from her Dad, but she starts to hear drums…

not just any kind of drums but a super clean drum line. Snares, Tenors, Bass. The whole shebang. Well it is that time of year…

Luna looks at Star & says, “Is today a holiday?” Rounding the corner, on their street, is a fully dressed marching band, led by…

Mother, in marching gear. “What happened to the bread sticks from Olive Garden you promised?” asked Star. Astor was dumbfounded.

“In a minute,” Mother yelled in between the first and second verse of Poker Face. Star and Astor sang along, drawn in by the beat.

Star didn’t notice mom leading the band w/breadsticks, in hand. After the final verse, she threw the bread sticks at Star saying…

What a day… we need to get those bread sticks from the Olive Garden and get ready for Shark Week. Tired, they hugged &…

peeled away from the marching band. They jumped in the car, headed to Olive Garden, & ate unlimited salad and bread sticks.

THE END

 

Whoa. Just whoa. I don’t even know what happened in this story. It was really hard to follow, and normally I’m pretty good at keeping the storyline on track. What started out as a fight turned into a kid’s imagination, which then turned into a streaking Mom, a human-like Pomeranian, Ricky Martin and unlimited salad and bread sticks at Olive Garden. I could barely keep up. All I know is Astor and Star are two lucky girls for finally being able to chow on those delicious, garlicky logs of heaven. I’m jealous.

Thanks to @kikiandkyle for the photo, which started this wild tale. And thanks to all those who wrote. The vets – @nella22, @Chrisa_Hickey, @jimmydoestea and @hwtibbs – you guys always make me laugh. And we had a bunch of newbs – @_Benny_K, @javilabbe, @vnarvasa, @honey_badger_, @Guert – which is awesome. You guys carried the end of the story. Hope you all contribute again next time.

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Wrestling with Love

This is the tale of two men and a magical, mystical fedora. It all began on an otherwise quiet evening.

Though they claimed they were meditating in actuality they were having a staring contest that started because

an hour before, fedora-sporting Frank said to Tim, “Hey! I bet if I stared at your chair long enough, I could make it disappear!”

“You’re on,” said Tim. And it was on. Fedora-sporting Frank fixated his eyes on Tim’s chair when, poof! Both chairs disappeared.

“Great,” said Frank. “Now where am I supposed to park my ass?” He grumbled as he slid slowly towards the cold, hard wooden floor.

Tim couldn’t believe what he saw. He looked under his legs then back at Frank. “What just happened Frank?”

“I don’t know, dude.” Frank had yet to realize that the fedora he was wearing, found at the pool hall last week, wasn’t normal.

Last week had been a tough one on Frank, being that he had just…

…lost the rest of his furniture in a poker game with former Governor and convicted felon Rod Blagojovech.

Frank gambled away his money, his dignity & his shoes. And as he left, he tripped over the fedora. “Damn hat,” he said, kicking it.

Shoeless and destitute, Frank bemoaned the loss of his chairs. His follicles tingled, the hat tightened on his brow. Then, a knock

on the door. “Open up!” screamed the voice on the other side of the door. Tim, always somewhat of a wuss, shook his head no.

The voice became more agitated. “OPEN UP!” Tim was crying. Frank kept still. And then, magically, the fedora sprung into action.

Chyna, 90s WWE diva wrestling superstar, nearly broke down the door before the Fedora magically turned the knob to let her in.

“50 push-ups, Now!” Chyna ordered. Shoeless Frank and Tim were too scared to argue. The Fedora kept count for the two men: 1, 2…

Tim struggled on 3. Chyna swiped her fingers on his back and smelled them. “Who’s got flowers?” she asked. “Cuz I smell a PANSY!”

Frank was shocked. Not at Chyna being there. Definitely not that Tim could only do 3 push ups. But that a fedora was counting.

“Am I the only one who thinks this is weird?” asked Frank between pushups 42 & 43. Chyna flexed her biceps, pondering the question.

Chyna dropped and powered through 50 pushups of her own. Frank shook, wishing the fedora were collecting the sweat on his brow.

Chyna got back up, then did a few side bends. She looked at Frank. “So Sally,” she mocked. “What’s up with this magical fedora?”

Frank was out of breath, so Tim weakly responded, “Ms. Chyna, we think the Fedora is magical and wanted our fates to align.”

Chyna punched Tim and screeched “Speak when spoken to!” Eyeing the fedora, a delicious idea began to form. She realized she could

use this to her benefit. She had been eyeing that hottie at

wrestling camp for quite some time. “Gimme that fedora!” Chyna raged. Frank felt spit in his eyelashes. He meekly handed it to her.

“Let’s go!” she grunted. Chyna marched out, fedora in hand, Tim and Frank following. Tim mouthed, “Is she a guy?” to Frank.

Frank shrugged, wincing at the burning sensation in his shoulders from the pushups. “So who’s the wrestling camp hottie?” he asked.

“Asher the Smasher!” barked Chyna. The fedora flew ahead to hail a cab. “Where is he?” asked Tim, as Chyna devoured a protein bar.

As soon as the bar was complete Chyna starting talking and sounded nothing like herself but instead had developed a man’s voice.

“You ARE a man,” yelped Tim. “I knew it!” Chyna turned around and backhanded him. “Tell your girlfriend to watch it,” he/she said.

They got outside, but the fedora was gone. “I lost my money, my shoes, my dignity, my chairs, and now my fedora?” Frank lamented.

“Buck up, Sally,” growled Chyna. “Your fedora went to go find Asher the Basher.” Frank and Tim were too scared to say anything.

Then he realized that Chyna was gone too. Maybe the fedora’s magic included granting wishes. Frank looked around for Tim and

saw him quivering behind a bush. “She’s gone,” said Frank. “It’s ok.” Tim stepped out, trying to cover up a wet spot on his leg.

The door swung open. There stood the wrestling camp hottie Asher the Basher. He opened his mouth

and a yellow canary wearing a tiny waist coat flew out & landed on a the shoulder of a startled Tim. It hopped over to

Frank. Tim let out a yelp. “So…Asher the Basher, is it?” asked Frank. The canary chirped away, and with each one, Tim cringed.

“Me Asher,” grunted the wrestler. “Chyna?” He then proceeded to smash his fist through the drywall. Tim just about had a meltdown.

“My fedora made her disappear,” said Frank. Asher, while not smart, didn’t believe what he heard. “I’m not that dumb,” he said.

Just then, there was a window tap. It was the fedora. It tapped on the glass 3 times, and on the 3rd, the canary turned into Chyna.

“My hottie!” grunted Chyna. “My Chyna!” grunted Asher the Basher. Tim sobbed. Frank grabbed the fedora, wedging it on Tim’s head.

Just like that, the fedora transformed Tim. “Come here you two!” he yelled. Celebrating, he put Chyna & Asher in headlocks.

THE END

So this story took a turn, and it’s all due to Chyna. What a physical specimen. She stole the show. And she got Asher the Basher!! I’m so happy for Chyna. But really, I think I’m happiest for Tim. He finally grew a pair (or was given one), and it’s all because of the magical fedora! So lucky! I almost want to change the intro line to say, “This is the tale of two men, a magical, mystical fedora and a 90s WWE female wrestler.”

This photo was one I found on my phone, so I thank myself for providing the picture. But thanks to all the writers – @swanieson @courtcan @arzubusiness @Chrisa_Hickey @nella22 @jimmydoestea @steeb2er @FeliciaCago @EBArchDesign – for helping write today’s story. Special shout-out to new writer @EBArchDesign, who jumped in towards the end with a few funny lines. Hope you had fun and that you join us again.

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Doin’ Time

“Man, those look so good,” he thought. Anything would. He hadn’t eaten in days.

4 days exactly, since arriving in prison. Chaz didn’t mind being called Mr. Fluffles, but the pebbles they offered him to eat

were not of the fruity kind like he was expecting but instead were of the garden variety and laced with some sort of foul tasting

butter. Chaz loved butter. But butter didnt go with pebbles. Butter went with toast. He’d do anything for buttered toast. Anything.

Up to and including pouncing on an unsuspecting Dougie the bread delivery man who lives next door.

Chaz still couldn’t believe that mousy lawyer of his couldn’t beat the rap. Guess he should have stuck with the rat,

Feral, they said! Really? “How could I have possibly kept my mane this pristine if I was wild?! Unless they knew about

the membership he had to the Cat Beauty Club for Convicts.

CBCC included daily milk baths and all the mackerel he could eat. Great for the coat! And weekly hairball extraction.

Chaz paid dues for the membership in cigarettes. It’s what you do in prison. He had a guy on the outside who’d smuggle them in.

Though when you pay with candy cigarettes it takes a lot more of them.

Hence the poofy mane. Looks good & helps hide the stash of cigs. It’s a vicious cycle, really. One that Chaz was looking to break.

He’d tried 12 step programs to overcome his candy cigarette hiding addiction. If only there had been warnings on the packages.

So here he sits. Jonesin’ for that high only street candy can give. Those big yellow lollipops out the window calling his name.

If only he never hid candy cigarettes in his fur. If only he didn’t join the CBCC. If only he never robbed that bank. If only.

After a while they turned from lollipops to resemble the heads of this siblings, whom he hadn’t seen since…

Since who can remember, with the candy jones clouding his feline brain. He was so hungry now, he could eat one of his siblings.

“Cats with the poofy mane are always up to something, but never taken seriously.” He thought to himself. I need to break out.

Suddenly Chaz had an idea that might shorten his sentence. Design packaging for those evil candy cigs w/pictures of decayed teeth.

He could also alter his identity with a haircut. “Hey Rico,” he yelled to the resident inmate barber. “You still got a 4:30 open?”

“Not if you want another permanent wave,” Rico yelled back.

“I need to look like someone else,” he thought. “No, no,” he replied to Rico “I’m thinking a mullet will do the trick.”

“Business in front, paaarrrty in the back,” cooed Rico. “Of course he digs that,” said a voice from solitary. “He’s a hairdresser.”

Behind the bars the face of Chaz’s favorite hellraiser Jack Murphy appeared, grinning in his familiar half-crazy way.

Jack Murphy though was the one that got Chaz into this whole conundrum in the first place.

If only he hadn’t raised his prices for mullets and got Chaz hooked on the imported milk bath.

“Hey Rico,” yelled Murphy. “You think I could borrow those scissors when you’re done?” Just then, Officer Friendly came by.

Friendly’s name was a misnomer, as he was anything but. It was rumored he’d killed a man during a cell search. Chaz was very…

…tall for a beagle. Don’t let those cute little ears fool you. He was no Snoopy. As he walked by, Chaz whispered….

“The cat flies at midnight.” Friendly smacked his billy club on the wall. “Shut it, you cat, or Beagle, or whatever you are.”

Friendly had trouble identifying criminal animals, aka crinimals. He was always confusing himself, a Beagle, with Chaz, the cat.

It’s why Friendly left the camaraderie of the police force for the isolation of the criminal system. The ridicule bruised his ego.

Chaz looked anxiously at the clock, pacing back and forth. “It’s 4:20, Rico” he yelled. “We’re still on for my 4:30, right?”

“Yes,yes, the mullet,” Rico answered. “But why do you need my scissors?”

“I don’t,” said Chaz, now with a mullet. “He does.” He pointed to Jack Murphy in solitary. “Ahhh,” said Rico. “That makes sense.”

But it didn’t make sense to Jack. He’d been told by Friendly to get them away from Rico. He just couldn’t figure out the reason.

He suspected it was because of the increasing number of inmates with mullets. In their uniforms, it was hard to tell them apart.

That explains how Dax escaped during the annual football game. He went long down the sideline & kept going, unnoticed into freedom.

And with this year’s game tomorrow, Chaz had similar plans. But he needed help. Someone on the inside to unlock the gates.

Lucky for Chaz he had a sympathtic fellow inmate that had been working on an escape plan and was willing to spring Chaz for the sum

of 22 candy cigarettes. But Chaz still needed help on the inside. If he could just talk to that quiet new guard Dempsey.

Dempsey had a thing for kitties (he always used that “p” word) and Chaz was sure his knowing Dempsey’s secret would sway him.

Dempsey’s quiet and unassuming demeanor was a facade to cover

the fact that he spent time in the joint when he was younger. He had sympathy for the inmates & was dying for one to approach him.

Chaz approached during lunch, putting up a front to seem tougher than he was. “Psst. Word is you got a soft spot for cats like me.”

He tried really hard not to laugh at his “cats” pun. He bit his lip & furrowed his brow, waiting to see how Dempsey would respond.

Dempsey growled back “scat cat” but slipped him a piece of paper.

It read: Doors open fur game at 11:30. Doors open fur u at 12:40. Chaz winked, then yelled,”I ain’t no scaredy cat.” Again, a front.

He was shaking in his non-existent boots and dropped the paper as he walked away.

Moments later, Warden Raton, making his daily rounds, happened upon the slip of paper.

Thankfully the warden was slightly dyslexic and read it as game is at 3:11 and the doors open fur you at 4:21.

The clock was approaching 12:30 and Chaz made his way to the outer lock.

He spotted Dempsey walking away from the doors, and he knew it was only minutes until his freedom. The clock struck 12:27.

Hearing the hum of the locking mechanism beginning to open, Chaz tightened his spine; ready to spring.

12:30. As Dempsey promised, the doors opened. Chaz sprang out to freedom, just as the inmates scored a touchdown on a flea flicker.

Chaz was running free, past the yellow flowers. The guards paid him no attention. They were in a dogfight on the football field.

And Dempsey was right behind…remember, he had a thing for kitties!

And so Chaz was able to safely run free to meet up with his long lost family.

And the two ran off until they became dots. Chaz after his family. Dempsey, the horndog, after Chaz.

THE END

Whew! That was a long one. (That’s what she said.) I’m really happy for Chaz. He deserved freedom. He deserved to break free from his candy cigarette hiding addiction. He deserved a new ‘do from Rico the prison hairdresser. Not so sure he deserved Dempsey, but hey, what can you do?

Thanks so much to you all for contributing to this story. Thanks @lilmissjen for the amazing photo, which I believe you snapped in a window in New York City. We had a new writer today – @Sean_Heffernan. Thanks for joining, and I hope you enjoyed. And thanks to all the veteran writers – @LundieP, @swanieson, @paulmtracy, @elderberryjam, @jsetlak, @ParkRidgeDDS, @courtcan, @adelamiz, @Sean_Heffernan, @Chrisa_Hickey and @hwtibbs. This one had deep character development, so an extra thanks to @swanieson and @paulmtracy for hanging in at the end and helping me finish.

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