Category Archives: @nella22

The Two-headed Monster

 

“I’m hungry,” said Wally. “Too bad,” said Pauley. This two-headed monster sure loved to bicker.

Pauley & Wally were laying on their master’s property, knowing that soon enough they’d receive the call to action.

After months of training, it was time. But with their constant disagreement, no one was sure they’d be able to execute the plan.

It was hard for them to execute anything as Pauley could only look left, and Wally could only look right.

But the one thing they both could do–and very well, I might add–is hatch a scheme. And hatch they would.

On the north side of town, the feed store manager, Dolly, was busy with year end accounting. She didn’t notice the sirens until…

…Collie ran inside and uttered the phrase that struck fear in Dolly’s heart: Timmy fell in the well.

And now it was go time. Wally jumped up first, but Pauley’s heavy head pulled Wally back down. They came crashing to the ground.

Meanwhile, Timmy was splashing around in the well. Dolly was pacing. “When are Pauley and Wally gonna get here?”

Collie wasn’t bright, but he sensed Pauley & Wally would never get there on their own. Collie had to take matters into his hands

Or rather, his paws.

He trotted over to Wally and Pauley’s to find them bickering. “It’s time to go!” yelled Wally. “No it’s not!” screamed Pauley.

Collie had heard enough. He grabbed Wally & Pauley by their scruffy twin necks and drug them out the door.

Collie dragged Wally and Pauley across the muddy field, up a cobblestone hill and through a sizable patch of tall grass to the well

“Well?” Collie demanded.

They still couldn’t agree. Pauley wanted to help. Wally to sleep. And the longer they took, the longer Timmy was down in the well.

Collie knew if the pair couldn’t come to an accord, things wouldn’t end well at all. But Collie had one last trick up his sleeve.

Dolly. Her ample size and bleach-blonde fur scared the living daylights out of Wally & Pauley. They would not cross her.

“Dolly,” Collie said, “help me get these pups straightened out.” Dolly drew a breath into her ample chest and began to…

sing. “Hey Wally, hey Pau-ley. You neeeeed to help us out. Hey Wally, hey Pauley, right now. Right now right now right now.”

That got their attention. They were huge fans of “Singin’ in the Rain” and Gene Kelly. Now, they were ready to save little Timmy.

Wally and Pauley grabbed spelunking gear and started down the well. There was this keen determination in all four of their eyes.

Then the usual argument began. “Why do I always have to go 1st?” cried Pauley. “YOU? It’s ME who always goes 1st!” Wally shouted.

Dolly couldn’t stand it anymore, so she just pushed them over into the well. They had no choice but to save little Timmy now.

Especially since Timmy had been submerged under the pair after their fall.

The strange anatomy that was Pauley & Wally helped liberate Timmy. Thus, proving the old adage—two heads are better than one.

Timmy was able to climb out to safety, stepping on the pairs’ heads to do so. And now, it was Pauley and Wally who were stuck.

Amazingly, Wally & Pauley worked together like their life depended on it. Which it did. They followed Dolly’s pitchiness to safety.

And thus, when it came down to it, Wally and Pauley came through. Everyone lived happily ever after. Despite the bickering.

THE END

 

Sorry for the delay in getting this story up. I know all of you were dying to read it. So now you have your chance. This was a weird one – lots of name rhyming, and it didn’t have that many twists and turns. It was kind of matter of fact. Someone fell down a well, then he got saved. Oh, and a little Dolly Parton mixed in.

 

Thanks to @Chrisa_Hickey for supplying the photo. I believe they’re her dogs. And thanks to @nella22 @chrisa_hickey @ShesAllWrite @MojoEnvy and @MusicAdamT for writing with me.

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Bieber Fever

He came and went as he pleased, jumping in and out of our lives. But who was this masked man?

We were all starting to feel nervous, because he’d pop up in the strangest moments. He seemed to be able to read our minds.

He was always around during birthdays and July 4th. Other events were unpredictable, yet it was always considered good luck.

His dress was unremarkable. Though he had appeared at so many celebrations, no one could ever remember what he wore.

This man, he went by the name…

… Reaper. Justin Reaper. He was the prettiest picture of death the world would know in modern times.

He was no man at all, but a manifestation of all four horsemen of the apocalypse: Social Media, Pop Music, Teen Crushes.

But the irony was with Justin Reaper, he hated death, to kill, to extinguish life. But that’s his job and it was killing him.

… and Teen Parents Living Vicariously Through Their Children. His presence meant the end times were upon us. And then the snow…

The snow led him to contemplate the lives he’d ruined, each like a single flake falling to the ground and melting into oblivion.

It was a time of reflection, of looking inward, and Justin Reaper hated what he saw. “I hate what I see,” he said to his friend…

…Jayden Blue Ivy Cent, the muse of teeny-bopper pop music.

“So change,” said Cent. “I can never change,” retorted Reaper. “You’re always saying ‘Never say never,'” said Cent. He had a point.

“Why do you say that, by the way?” asked Cent. “It’s the most oxymoronic phrase ever.”

Reaper shrugged. “Someone told me to.” With that mindset, no way he’d change. Jayden Blue Ivy Cent needed to stage an intervention.

Cent wracked his brain for an intervention specialist. He flipped on MTV and found… @DrDrew.

And he needed to gather all of Reaper’s friends. Which was no small task considering his mere presence meant imminent death.

Maybe it would be wiser to pick the friends already passed on. Cent called Tupac, Biggie and, for another point of view, Andy Gibb.

The intrepid trio suggested calling upon 140-year-old Dick Clark to help them on their quest – find the greatest song about death.

And then the first faint notes of Blue Oyster Cult’s Don’t Fear The Reaper broke the intrepid silence.

Reaper sensing what was going on, gestured crudely, yelling “haven’t I given you all more than enough damn cowbell?!”

“Sometimes a guy just needs a hug, a happy song and a nice cheese platter to share with his friends.”

Music hath charms to calm the savage beast. Reaper’s was infused with the peal of cowbell. A small, fatalistic smile lit his face.

And with great glee the Reaper shrieked, “No more cowbell!” It was the day the cowbell died.

And there was much rejoicing. But there was still the matter of Reaper’s job satisfaction–or lack thereof.

“You know there’s a gig bagging groceries open at the Piggly Wiggly?” Andy Gibb offered.

Cent stifled a giggle at the name. Piggly Wiggly. But Reaper’s eyebrows raised. “Tell me more, Andy,” he said.

Andy gazed past Justin Reaper, past Jayden Blue Ivy Cent, past Biggie & Tupac, even past Dick Clark. “The Pig,” he whispered,” is…

…ON TWITTER! Reaper paused, envisioning a nest full of rabid followers, favoriting and retweeting his (or The Pig’s) every word.

“Screw bagging groceries,” Reaper declared. “I can reign down death on shoppers everywhere via social media!” His grin widened.

Somewhere in Silicon Alley, a self-proclaimed social media guru scrolled through his Twitter feed…

He read the notification out loud, “Piggly Wiggly followed you”…

“I think I’m gonna like Twitter,” Reaper hissed, slyly drumming his fingers on his desk.

Justin Reaper handed his scythe to Tupac. “No need for this anymore. All I need is a smartphone and unlimited data.”

“Like I care. I’m already dead,” Tupac answered, dropping the scythe. But Jayden Blue Ivy Cent shuddered at what he’d enabled.

Just when all appeared lost, Andy Gibb piped in, “It’s cool, man! @ATT no longer offers unlimited data! Shadow dancing…yeah…”

Startled, Justin Bieber woke up sweating. His mom was bedside. “You’re okay, Justin,” she said. “You just have a fever.”

THE END

 

Interesting story. Not sure how I feel about contributing to Bieber Fever, so I guess the fact that he was actually responsible for killing people in this story makes it a little more tolerable. We should have had him kill himself. And his music. Then we’d all be happier. Well, except for the group Teen Parents Living Vicariously Through Their Children. They’re a force to be reckoned with. Okay, so this story went all over the place, but I was completely fine with it. I had already come up with how everything would end this afternoon, so I was just letting it go. Until it stalled. Then, BAM – Bieber fever. Get it?

Thanks to @kschaffs for supplying the photo. It definitely got people writing. And also, glad to have you involved. Hope next time you write too.

Thanks to all the writers – @nella22, who’s good for supplying the second line to a story about 89.7% of the time, @Robotstephe, whose sense of humor fits well with mine, @ShesAllWrite and @Chrisa_Hickey, who were having a personal back and forth toward the end, gabesphone_com, who was a first-time contributor and added a hilarious line right in the middle of @jsetlak’s patented triple-tweet that had me stuck on how to make it all make sense, @jsetlak, who triple-tweeted, @MusicAdamT and @MojoEnvy, who helped me kick Twitter and get it to work when their tweets weren’t showing up, and my old co-workers @TonyPawela and @elderberryjam, who humored me and wrote because I asked them to help out. Fun.

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Explosions!

It arrived. Finally.

It rode in atop a silver snake-train behemoth, clinging to its scales like a virus, headed for…

…the Mexico border. This package had been through a lot already, but it finally made it to Tijuana.

It sat now propped up against the ticket agent’s dusty kiosk, a corner bent up as if someone had peeked at its loathsome contents.

But what was inside?

A small compass, a map, a train pass that was one zone short of its destination and a note.

But not just any note. It was written in…

Sanskrit, in gold ink. Parts of the ink had flaked off during the parcel’s journey.

Paolo recognized the large flourishes and was able to intercept it before Lester, the world’s preeminent Sanskrit translator, did.

Paolo had to move fast. He’d seen Lester making his way through the terminal. Now that the parcel was safe, he’d have to leave.

Lester, having arrived at the baggage claim, was outwardly serene when he saw the parcel was gone. Inside, his temper flared.

Flanked by his cronies, he strode over to the phone bank and called M. “Elvis has left the building, M. It’ll be a Blue Christmas.”

Mesmerized by the parcel in his hands, Paolo absently twirled the package and silently mouthed, “All things must pass.”

Lester was a huge fan of The King. Rumor had it the two used to party together back in the day. Elvis’ death left him all shook up.

Paolo ducked into a nearby restroom, silenced his iPhone and took 3 photographs of the flaking note, then emailed them to himself.

Meanwhile, M hung up the phone & sprung into action. First, he called N. Then N called O, who dialed P & Q. Paolo wouldn’t get far.

He knew he had to contact Sarf. She would know what to do next. She was the Chosen One, so he trusted her. Or so he thought?

Paolo put the note and the phone in his breast pocket, flushed and washed, then left the station on a wave of oblivious travelers.

But the Alphabet Crew were hot on his trail. They knew he’d go to Sarf next. How? She called O and told him. She said, “…

“…O, Paolo is coming to me.” O thanked her for the intel, then dialed Lester. He was in the middle of translating Sanskrit.

Lester headed to Sarf and waited for Paolo. The parcel, and its contents, were about to be his.

If only the package wasn’t set to implode upon itself at

11:15pm.

POW! BANG! BAMMO! The package imploded upon itself. The contents wiped out the entire world.

THE END

Until suddenly the package implosion exploded, then re-imploded and re-wiped out the wiped out world. THE END, again.

Wow – lots of fireworks at the end of this story. Dramatic ending. But would you really expect anything else with the Alphabet Crew involved? I definitely wouldn’t. Poor Paolo, Sarf and Lester – they all died when the world was wiped out. Although I guess everyone did. So poor everyone.

Thanks to @rookiephenom for supplying the photo, as well as for jumping in and adding a line in the story. And glad to have a couple of new writers – @MojoEnvy and @ShesAllWrite – hope you both had fun and you join me again. And last, but not least, the stories wouldn’t be the same without my stable of regulars who write on every story. For this one, that was @FeliciaCago, @MusicAdamT, @hwtibbs, who pulled out the triple-tweet, @nella22 and @swanieson. Thanks all.

Addendum – @talkingmonkey contributed with a late line, which I’ve added to the end of the story. It completely changes things.

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Black and White

“He’s been here,” one of the detectives said, pointing up. And there it was – the Devil’s silhouette.

Chester’s skin tingled with anticipation; this meeting was the first of many to come. He’d finally meet the man behind the mask…

He’d been close so many times. There was Tulum in the summer of ’98. And Hoboken in the winter of ’04. And Odessa in ’08 and ’09.

Paddling with greater intensity, the canoe neared the entrance to Satan’s Cove.

Chester explored the rock, finding ashes amidst the seagull droppings. He scraped it away and bagged it to take back to the lab.

Chester was an expert in his field of forensic paranormal metaphysics.; an oxymoron to be sure.

One of many in his life. His last name’s Black but he’s white. He expects the unexpected. And his favorite appetizer? Jumbo shrimp.

Chester’s concentration was broken when he became aware of an increasingly strong presence of brimstone in the air.

He paddled away, certain he knew where to go next.

The cove at the far side of the island had been billowing smoke since the expedition started. It was there he would find the….

He would continue his journey far across the sea—to the land of the 1000 trees, in search of the White Lady.

For only she possessed the power to intercept this ungodly work of the Man in Black himself.

The evil Johnny Cash. Composer of great music. Destroyer of Earth. And Chester’s deceased nemesis.

Chester donned his plasma electroscopic lenses. Yep, it was Evil Johnny. He could tell from the

ring of fire.

The fire that burns, burns, burns.

June Carter slowly crept behind Chester. “Hello C, it’s been too long, we’ve been waiting for you.”

Chester’s mouth dropped. “What for, Ms. Carter?” he asked.

Chester had a thing for June. Even though she was just a ghost. Perhaps that’s why Johnny had resurfaced after Odessa.

June was in all white. And Chester put it all together. “Are you the…” he started. “The White Lady?” she interjected. “Yes. I am.”

Of course June was the only one who could control the Man in Black. She took Chester to see Cash and the burning ring of fire.

But when they got there, the ring was gone. And so were all signs of Cash, except his black coat. “Thwarted again,” cackled June.

A furious Chester continued the search, adding the Land of 1000 Trees in ’11 to his list of close encounters with Mr. Cash.

THE END

 

The Devil, Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash. And Chester, the oxymoronic detective who was in love with June and hunted down Cash. And June – always looking out for her Johnny, even when they’re ghosts. She kept Chester at bay just enough for Johnny to disappear. Again.

Thanks to everyone who wrote – @nella22, @paulmtracy, @hwtibbs, @graphics_diva, @swcouture and @_Benny_K. Special shout-out to @graphics_diva, who’s a new contributor. I promise I’m normally a lot faster in getting these stories up.

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John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt

He was banished to the corner. Again. Seems to be the story of his life.

But he refused to wear pants, and they couldn’t force him, even with…

…bacon on the brain. Thoughts not wavering and with a skillet in tow…

…he stuck his finger up his nose and lamented his sad state of affairs.

Since being banished John Jacob had been trying to figure out

just where his life was headed.

At the same time, upon attempting to find bacon and pants…he heard a sound. Or a bang.

Or even possibly, a clang. It had a distinct ring, but not like a bell had rang. It was definitely not a ding.

The source revealed itself as the chef-shaped kitchen timer, which had fallen onto the floor as its time expired.

John Jacob was relieved. He thought it was his German half-brother, Jingleheimer Schmidt, coming back to finish what he started.

You see, Jingleheimer was a big confectioner. And John Jacob preferred savory. So he shuddered whenever his brother baked.

It’s not that he was bad – no, wait. It was. He put Aleppo Pepper in everything. Including the Chocolate-Dipped Spice Twists

that were ready to be taken out of the oven. The timer had been ringing for 22 minutes. But Jingleheimer was still on his run.

“Let the baking BURN!” said John.

And it did. John cackled, then coughed, in the corner, watching the smoke billow out of the oven. But where was Jingleheimer?

And why, pray tell, did he not put on pants before entering the kitchen this morning? The Inpsectors™ were coming by!

He wasn’t the baker in the family, and the last time he took something out of the oven, it was a disaster. His scars proved it…

John reinserted his finger in his nose, his go-to posture for deep thinking.

John probed his sinus cavity for ideas, trudging through lost notions and manic whims before striking a subterranean concept.

“What if Jingleheimer’s hurt?” John thought. He pulled his pants up and made his way through the smoke to go find his brother.

He found him passed out on the floor overcome by the aroma of burnt buns still clutching plans for Jingle’s Bacon Bun Food Truck.

John grabbed Saran Wrap, put it over Jingleheimer’s mouth, poked a hole, and began CPR. (You never know where a Schmidt has been)

While Schmidt was a terrible baker, he was a masterful flirt. It seemed no woman could resist him.

…and into the black Lincoln Town Car he had been using for his burgeoning limo service.

En route to the hospital, Schmidt stirred from the back seat, a low chortle reverberating in his smoke-filled lungs…

“Who’s this freak?” asked the rich lady with the long black veil that John had forgotten was his fare in the back seat.

“And why’d we stop in that driveway?” she continued. “And now where are we going?” John rolled his eyes, then raised the partition.

“Terribly sorry, ma’am, but we’ll have to make one more stop before taking you to the opera. I’m sure we won’t be…”

Saved by the partition. Jingleheimer would have to deal with the lady’s nagging. John turned the radio up. His favorite jam was on

…the dashboard – strawberry, what was left of his lunch. And now it was nearly dawn. “Man, I’m hungry. Wish I had a…

…piece of toast. Or one of Jingleheimer’s Chocolate Dipped Spice Twists.” As if on cue, there was a knock on the partition.

It was Schmidt. He surreptitiously pulled something from his pocket and flung it at john while the lady was on the phone.

John ducked instinctively, and when he did, he yanked the wheel left, crashing into the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile in the next lane.

The Weinermobile immediately burst into flames. “One dog, well done,” muttered John. He could hear Schmidt & the lady yelling…

…in excitement over the prospect of free hot dogs. John Jacob quickly realized his good fortune as well, and he started yelling.

Everyone was yelling happily. John Jacob, Jingleheimer Schmidt and the old lady went in for a group hug. Then for hot dogs.

THE END

 

“John, Jacob, Jingleheimer, Schmidt.” I used to love that song growing up. So I was psyched at the possibilities for where a story about these two brothers could go. And despite their differences, when it came down to it, John Jacob had his brother’s best interests in mind. And they ended up with hot dogs! So lucky!

Lots of new contributors on this one. Thanks to @swcouture for the photo. And to new writers @rookiephenom, @MusicAdamT, @swcouture and @martinbihl. And of course, thank you to regular contributors @FeliciaCago, @Chrisa_Hickey, @swanieson, @Robotstephe, @nella22, @Pawela04 and @hwtibbs. That was a fun story.

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The Mythical Maudfish

“Whoaaaaaaa!” At the last moment, she leaned to the side, holding on for dear life.

She’d been riding this ship for the past 15 hours and her legs were getting tired…But she NEEDED to hold on to the

magic potion that would return her to her normal self. Now she needed to find a safe place to

hide the potion from Lord Stickywic, who needs the potion to cure his own ailment

of sticky warts. Everything he touched stuck to him like glue, which was very frustrating because he worked at

Wal-Mart. And Wal-Mart sells everything.

The townsmen always thought it a little weird that a Lord worked at Wal-Mart. But Wal-Mart hires everyone, so they got used to it.

After all it beat when he worked at the currency exchange and they were never getting the right amount of money.

Maude began to clamber down to the raft she’d prepared. “Stickywic will never think to look in New Zealand,” she thought.

“In New Zealand I will hike the highest mountains to find the perfect place to hide from him & complete my own transformation.”

But what was Maude transforming into?

Slowly she realized her feet had started to develop a webbed appearance.

If only she’d had webbed feet *before* rafting to New Zealand. Would’ve made the trip easier. The hiking, not so much.

She expected more of a spiritual transformation. This physiological change was making Maude nervous.

She pouted her lips as she thought this, inadvertently making that “duck face” so many girls make in pics on social network sites.

Maude began to notice her legs coming close together, and hair getting longer. Was she turning into a mermaid?

Maude rushed to dive off the peak of the mountain into the water below. Perhaps she

could avoid turning the catfish that was her destiny from birth.

She dove. As she fell through the air, she noticed Sir Mortimer Reginald IX in his combustible airship headed toward her.

Sir Mortimer was a part of a crew of combustible airship pilots who routinely searched for divers throughout New Zealand.

Tales of Maudes turning into catfish had circulated amongst the pilots for centuries, becoming long-lost lore of drinking ballads.

“A Maude into a Catfish, a Maude into a Catfish, a Maude into a Catfish,” they’d sing cheerily, glugging from their steins.

Never did Mortimer imagine that he’d be the one chosen to catch the mythical Maudfish.

And now here he was, almost face to face with the Maudfish. He pulled the throttle, knowing this was an opportunity of a lifetime.

An opportunity that was coming to a screeching halt because he forgot to gas up before leaving.

His combustible airship began sputtering. “Uh oh,” Sir Mortimer lamented.

He was going down.

Maudfish had other plans though. Seeing Mortimer’s boat going down

and where was Lord Stickywic? The potion is almost done for & he gets called in for the closing shift at WalMart!

It was too late. Mortimer’s plane crashed before Maudfish could get to him. And Lord Stickywic never got the potion.

THE END

Ahhh, the mythical Maudfish. Never before seen. Until finally, Mortimer gets his eyes on it. But of course, the old “he’s out of gas” storyline had to rear its ugly head. And Mortimer crashed. Poor guy. I bet the rest of the airship pilots are singing ballads in his honor.

Thanks @brianpinkley for supplying the photo. It’s pretty hilarious. And has nothing to do with the story.

And thanks to @nella22 @brianpinkley @lesliestaysup @melmo3 @swanieson @officerpupp @jsetlak and @Pawela04 for writing again with me. Special shout-out to @mscileppi, a new writer! Yeah, Maria! Hope you enjoyed it. So glad you jumped in.

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Monkeying Around

There was no announcement, no warning, nothing. One morning, it was just there. But why? And what was it?

From a distance, it had the appearance of a grotesque gingerbread house, one that would haunt the dreams of kids and adults alike.

It was too late. The abstract structure was not art, it was an ad. USP’s had been seeping into their brains.

“Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun,” sang Igor, in a trance as he walked by.

With the sequence of words the structure started to come to life.

Roaring to life, sugar stalagmites punched up from the ground, and the unmistakable smell of confection surrounded the passerby.

Igor has longed to officially change the lyrics to, “two all beef patties special sauce, special cheese”. Now was his chance.

As Igor sang his revision of the classic, his James Earl Jones-ish voice began to shake the sugar walls of the structure.

As small cracks covered the structure, a haze of sugar crystals rose, filling the clearing. Igor found himself unable to see the

large statue of

the Chief Monkey. Igor knew that 80% of monkeys had never even seen this statue. It was a special day.

With complete reverence, Igor approached the statue. But, as he got closer, the hairs on the back of his knuckles started rising

at the sight of the group of monkeys quickly approaching.

He didn’t recognize them and signaled to Tango, the other sentry on duty. “Tango, head back to the village and find Marrick.”

80% of those monkeys had never even seen a person. Igor was getting nervous.

When Igor got nervous he tended to eat. Unluckily for him all he had to eat was

pie. He always carried a tin of French Silk. As the silky chocolate mousse slithered through his teeth, Tango arrived with Marrick.

“Can I have a piece?” asked Marrick. Tango was none too thrilled, considering the fate of the whole monkey population was at stake.

So Tango reminded Igor and Marrick what they were truly fighting for,

which is their right to manufacture and market their product “Anti Monkey But Powder®” to humans.

With it, they thought, they could change the world. But the statue had other ideas. No way was it going to

stop now. The statue has plans of its own and Igor’s teeth tingled, a sign of danger. But why now?

A earthquake earlier in the week apparently had woke up sleeping monkeys.

The earthquake was so large that it knocked over a chair. Scientists believe this is what caused the monkeys to wake up.

Mango Mama arrived. She had a pot of bok choy, tofu, scallions.”Dinner, dig in!” she yelled. Food smelled good, salty.

Igor, Marrick and Tango started eating, forgetting about statues and monkeys so they could enjoy a good meal. Meanwhile

sugar crystals started to melt and the monkeys want to learn to make fire

Mango Mama stomped in the room, yelled “Clear the table. Wash the dishes.” She whisked the pot away,emptied it.

Mango Mama worried, “Storms coming. Skies are angry.” A clap of thunder roared. Lightning lit the horizon.

As Mango Mama left the kitchen and Igor decided it was time…He knew it from this morning. Today was the day a monkey would

meet a real human. Igor was prepared and had read all about their habits. He quickly went to his room, he needed to warn

the others. But the other monkeys were too busy trying to learn how to make fire. “Guys!” Igor yelled. “What’s with the dancing?”

“Dancing?” Mango Mama began. “Is that all you see? Must you always be so duo-syllabic?”

“Duo-syllabic?” Igor retorted. “Must you always be so quinto-syllabic?” Igor was always good for a snarky comeback.

A shock rippled through Mango Mama’s mohawk. She reached behind her petticoat, and pulled out a tall

glass of pina colada.

She took a sip and offered Igor some. But he was too busy patting Mango Mama’s mohawk, wondering what else she might have in there.

With a unicorn holding the glass with its horn & a glowing rainbow mane hawk. At last!

Yes. At last. Igor had finally found the glass-holding unicorn with the glowing rainbow mane. He had been searching for it since

yesterday. It may be only a day to humans, but to monkeys, it’s more like 3650. Roughly. We never said monkeys were good at math.

His daughter asked him to look for it while she was watching Pokemon.

He lost the glass in a drinking contest to that damned unicorn. Who knew that lone horn would be the difference in flippy cup?

Beer pong was always his game to lose. If only he could convince

Mango Mama to partake in a game. He was certain he could avenge his flippy cup loss. He ran to his home and got some Silo cups.

Then 80% of the World’s monkeys showed up thinking it was a videogame pong contest.

Silo cups were unfortunately in short supply due to the jello shots made earlier that day.

The statue, watching all this happen, contorted. In the center arose a pristine, long wooden table with 10 cups on each side.

Igor went to one side of the table, Mango Mama to the other. Marrick played ref. “Game on!” he yelled. Mango threw the first ball.

She missed. Igor’s turn. He tosses his ball, and it goes right in the back corner cup. 1-0. Mango Mama chugs that cup’s beer.

Bbbbbbllllllllllllrrrrrrppppppppphphphphphppppppp.

She finishes chugging, slams the cup down & wipes her face. Mango Mama’s up. She tosses her next ball. Bam! Right in the front cup.

Wait a minute… Where did all the monkeys go?

The monkeys look on in anticipation as Igor chugs the beer.

Wait a minute… Where did all the monkeys go?

Mango Mama & Igor trade shots. He hits one. She hits one. He misses one. She misses one. And on until they’re down to one cup each.

The monkeys are riveted. Mango Mama’s up. If she hits this shot, it’s over. Igor will never be able to face his daughter again.

She takes her shot. It’s a high arc-er. The ball moves, almost in slow motion. Right at the cup. Is it going to go in?

With a plop it goes in. Igor hangs his head in shame until it bounces back out.

Apparently one of the jello shots made it to the beer pong game.

Igor didn’t care. Because now it was his turn. For all the marbles. Errrr…glass cup. Make this shot, and he can go home.

He throws his ping pong ball. It’s right on target. Could this be it? Could this be the shot that avenges his flippy cup loss?

As an extra surprise the winner flies home on the Unicorn with the rainbow mane.

And the ball misses! Having lost again he flips the table, downs the jello shots and walks away a sore loser.

THE END

So this story brought back memories from college. Monkeys, unicorns, crystals…wait. I mean beer pong and flippy cup. Yeah, that’s it. Our friend Igor could have had a happily ever after, except he sucked at drinking games. Too bad for him. Guess he shouldn’t have been so confident in his abilities. And the photo wasn’t too key in the story. Oh well. I tried to loop it in a little at the end, but let’s face it, beer pong playing monkeys are way more interesting.

Thanks to myself for providing the photo. Ha!

And thanks to all of today’s writers: @Robotstephe, who wrote early and late. @kevinegan80, who made a surprise appearance. @swanieson, who turned Igor from a winner into a loser. @hwtibbs, who brought Tango and Marrick into the story. @Guert, who has an infatuation with 80% of the world’s monkeys. @Pawela04, who jumped in earlier in the day, then came back with the sound of Mama Mango chugging her first beer pong cup. @AnalystQueen, a new writer (we love new writers!), who introduced Mango Mama into the story. @kvpops, another new writer (we love new writers!), who, despite the time difference between here and India and the cultural nuances was able to contribute. @nella22, who writes pretty much every single time, and helped keep the story moving when there was a little bit of a lull. @vnarvasa, who claims she was sober when she wrote her first tweet tonight, yet it made no sense. @1god, another new writer (we love new writers!), who made Igor have something to play for. and @rickmurray, whose MO seems to be to jump in late with a tweet just before going to bed, and this time, he brought college drinking games into the mix.

Good stuff. Thank you all. Like I said, I can’t do this without you guys.

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God Almighty

It descended upon the city, slowly swirling in, high above even the tallest buildings. But what was it?

Marcel looked up and noticed that these clouds were different then the ones he’d been studying. These clouds…weren’t clouds…

It was smoke. Taking another drag on a gigantic cigar, Zeus furrowed his brow at the city.

And then he blew.

But nothing came out but a small gust of air.

Having smoked cigars for many years Zeus’ lungs weren’t all they were in his younger years.

Zeus re-dragged and re-blew with success. The tallest towers disappeared and Marcel knew that he was to blame because

he dared Zeus the night before to explain the weight of smoke. Zeus employed a method learned from Sir Walter Raleigh long ago…

Sir Walter Raleigh – whose exaggerations were legendary – once told Queen Elizabeth I that he could determine the weight of smoke.

Weigh cigar. Smoke cigar, ashing onto scale. Weigh ashes. Difference between weight of cigar and ashes = weight of smoke.

Why a mortal like Marcel was daring Zeus to do anything was a mystery. Marcel forgot that Zeus had a sick sense of humor.

Had Marcel remembered the story of Leda and the Swan, he’d know not to give Zeus any excuse to interact with mortals directly.

But it was too late. The sky was now “thundering,” but Marcel knew better. It was Zeus, with his deep, bellowing, smoker’s laugh.

Zeus had called his bluff, clearly proving his cosmic superiority. Marcel, undeterred, shouted up to the clouds. “I’m not…

“…deterred!!!”

Zeus was clearly willing to do anything, but Marcel was a man of his word. He paced back and forth, thinking of what to do next.

Eventually he decided to call the fire department. “I need the biggest ladder you’ve got,” he said.

Not the type that took kindly to loaning out equipment, the Chief politely told him to eff off. But Marcel, undeterred as usual,…

Pulled out the yellow pages and looked up

“Ladderrific! For ladders to Zeus.” He dialed the number and heard a recording on the other end say: “You…

doofus. The only way to reach Zeus is via the Unending Escalator, located in…

the 7th stall in the 4th floor ladies washroom of the Marshall Field building. Thank you for your inquiry.” Marcel was elated.

But the elation quickly died down, replaced with skepticism. “God, that recorded voice sounded familiar,” he said aloud.

that swan. “There were so many things I didn’t know about her,” Marcel said before making his way to the Unending Escalator.

A mythology professor from the University of Chicago,

his children, all eight of them, all boys, except one, one girl, one little girl who was the key to this big plan

stood on the sidewalk, watching. “Hey you,” Marcel shouted to the U of Chicago professor. “Can you and your daughter come with me?”

“Either we all come or none of us do,” said the professor. Marcel had no choice. “To the Unending Escalator!” he yelled.

Off they marched to Marshall Field’s, Marcel leading the way. Briefly, a group of tourists followed, thinking it was a guided walk.

In time these tourists fell back, captured by the alleged allure of the American Girl store. At State St., the group realized…

they needed a suitable tribute for Zeus. “A virgin? Gold?” asked the professor. “No,” said Marcel. “Zeus has that. We need…”

They had been walking the wrong way for 20 minutes. Marcel thought, “Is the unending escalator even worth it?”

But he trudged on. “We need…,” he stammered. “We need…we need…What exactly do we need again?”

“The list is clear!” screamed the professor. “We need a Ginger, 7 daisies, and a Hellenologophobic. Zeus loves irony.”

The little girl held on to a plush Alf doll, which Marcel grabbed. “This orange mess of ginger hair works. Surely Zeus has no Alf.”

They then passed a Sbarro, spotting Daisies Fuentes, Duke, Irani, De La Hoya, Foote, Duck and Ms. Daisy having their weekly lunch.

“Our seven daisies!” screamed Marcel as he stopped the group in their tracks. “Someone get them!”

The Daisies jumped up and tried to run for the door. In the commotion, they forgot the exit was a pull door. 7 Daisies, check.

“Ay dios mio,” yelled Fuentes, “my triple cheese slice fell on the floor!” Duke, meanwhile was hollering for her cousins Luke & Bo.

The last thing they needed was a Hellenologophobic. “Be on the lookout for a Hellenologophobic, everyone,” asked Marcel.

“What IS that?” asked the girl. “It’s someone who’s afraid of logos with Hellen in it,” said Marcel. “Duh.”

Marcel thought, “distractions.” All of the sudden the sky changed & it was a massive haboob.

He was mistaken. “Actually, it’s someone afraid of Greek terms,” the professor chimed in. “So like a Roman?” asked his daughter.

A roman or things like aeropostle or anthropology.

As they got to Marshall Field’s, a prison bus drove by. “Look!” screamed the girl, pointed frantically. “It’s Roman Polanski!”

“That’ll do,” said Marcel. “Stop that bus!!” Ms. Daisy, trailing a little behind the rest of the group, jumped in front of the bus.

The haboob was gaining strength & Marcel was the only one who showed concerned.

Thankfully the bus stopped as there is nothing worse than a smushed Daisy! Out stepped the elusive Roman

as the professor guarded his kids. “Stay away!” But Marcel needed a Hellenologophobic, aka a Roman, so Polanski fit the bill.

“Come with us Mr Polanski and all will be well,” said Marcel.

The haboob kept building as Marcel tried to get the ginger, the 7 Daisies & Roman the Hellenologophobic to the Unending Escalator.

Oddly enough the escalator had moved to just inside the door so no one was able to escape its clutches.

First up was Roman, then Alf, a few Daisy’s the professor and the kids.

Then the rest of the Daisies, and bringing up the rear was Marcel.

Ms. Daisy was confused. “Where are we going sir?” she asked Marcel. But Marcel didn’t answer. He kept shoving her up the escalator.

When they reached the top waiting for them was

Zeus. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. He exhaled deeply, parting the haboob. “These are for you,” said Marcel, sheepishly.

It was as Robert Plant imagined. A Stairway to Heaven. But to what end? A bunch of flowers in a dust storm hardly seemed worth it.

Zeus looked around. “Ginger, check. 7 Daisies, check. And Roman Polanski??” he asked as he put the Stairway to Heaven record on.

“Damn right,” said Polanski in between Plant’s chorus. Marcel tried to shut him up so he could explain Polanski’s relevance.

“He’s our Hellenologophobic,” explained Marcel. “You know, because he’s ‘a Roman’?” He used air quotes for emphasis.

Suddenly they all started singing along to the song.

“…And she’s buying a stairway to heaven,” Zeus, Marcel, the professor, his 8 kids, Alf, the 7 Daisies and Roman Polanski crooned.

And off into the mist they all went.

THE END

 

Ha! That was an amazing story. It was so funny. One of the better ones we’ve written, and we’ve written some pretty good ones. I’m really happy for Marcel – he made Zeus happy. And let’s face it, if you’re given the option of making Zeus happy or making Zeus upset, you probably want to go with making him happy. So good for him. And good for the 7 Daisies. I’m kind of jealous of them getting to go to Sbarro’s for weekly lunch. But the person I’m definitely NOT jealous of? Roman Polanski. He served a purpose.

 

Thanks to myself for supplying the photo. Just kidding. Kind of. And thanks to all of the writers. You guys really brought it. @nella22, who almost always is one of the first ones to jump in and always makes me laugh. @officerpupp, who’s a newb but acted nothing like one. @FeliciaCago, who tried as hard as she could to end the story after 4 lines, but we wouldn’t let her. @swanieson, who stuck with me all the way to the end to wrap things up. @jsetlak, owner of the triple-tweet, who this time came through with the quintuple tweet. @hwtibbs, whose obscure references has me googling stuff all the time. @Chrisa_Hickey, who’s great at cutting right to things. @_Benny_K, who’s getting more involved each week, which is awesome. @jimmydoestea, who can tweet all pronouns and I’ll still laugh. @vnarvasa, who scolded me for not giving her a heads up that I was writing a story. And last but not least, @rickmurray, who snuck a line in right at the end that led us to a different story ending.

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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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