Short Stories

[ER]

This probably belongs in Entertainment but what's life without nihilism?

Anyone want to propose a topic or idea for a short-short story, and then anyone who wants to can post a story here based on the idea?

i.e. " Baby-Eating Alligator In Disney World Sewers Found To Be Gary Coleman" or "Why Jack the Ripper Really Stopped Killing" or "Aliens Land At The Super Bowl To Collect A Debt" or "College Student Thinks Parents' Generation On Right Track".

You know, impossible things.

Anyone care to propose a story idea to start?

[ER]

All righty, since no one is biting with a subject for a short story, I’ll throw one out….or up.

It’s a little bedtime story I been working on for my six-year-old called:

Curious George-Winnie the Pooh Death Match!

Since “there can be only one!” it was simply a matter of logic that the two most adorable anthropomorphic creatures of all time, Winnie the Pooh and Curious George, would one day contest matters and leave but one of them emerging to rule as king of the pre-pre-pre-pubescent landscape. The battle was set, quarter, by mutual agreement, was to be neither asked nor given. When the dust had cleared on the outskirts of Hundred-Acre Wood Arena, only one champion would remain, Pooh or Curious George.

The Man in the Yellow Hat knew how to turn a buck and was soon selling pay-per-view live footage online of George going about his workout ten hours a day, training with stillettos and shurikens and scimitars and deadly shakhita blades borrowed from a Chasid butcher in Brooklyn, for George only employed weapons that began with the letter of the day, which according to Big Bird happened to be S.

“Keep working out, George,” said the Man in the Yellow Hat, “and we’ll retire to a banana plantation near the De Wallen district of Amsterdam! You’ll just love all those red lights. Like Christmastime!”

Curious George replied by chattering viciously and slicing a Pooh doll in half with a single stroke of his saber, then tore out its little cotton kidney for a snack.

“Dat’s my monkey!” said the Man, already counting up his take-home pay from the big event.

But while Curious George trained constantly to kill Pooh, Winnie the Pooh seemed unconcerned, and spent his days eating honey and playing Pooh Sticks on the bridge with Tigger, until one day Curious George’s cousin, the crazy monkey from Chris Griffin’s bedroom closet back in Quahog, Rhode Island, paid him a visit.

“Pooh, what’s wrong with you” the crazy closet monkey demanded. “Have you ever fought a monkey before? We go insane once the duel begins. George is set to rip you into little pieces and sell them as souvenirs on Amazon.”

“Rip me apart?” asked Pooh contentedly while he raked around the bottom of an almost empty honey jar. “Why would he do that?”

“Pooh, are you on heavy drugs, man? Because this is a death match?! Curious George is going to slaughter you!”

“Goodness, no,” said Pooh, “how terrible. Well what can I do?”

The closet monkey thought a second, looked over each shoulder and said, “I’ll teach you my secret weapon I learned hanging with some dude named Bill. It’s called the five-finger death punch.”

“Oh, bother,” Pooh replied, “I can’t learn that, I haven’t got any fingers.”

Closet monkey face-palmed then and knew he was staring at a soon to be dead bear.

“All right then,” the monkey said re-gathering his wits. “Here’s something you’re not know about George. He once took an arrow in the knee and if you kick his left leg, he’ll go down.”

“He’ll go down?” Pooh repeated, blinking, his mind already on a new jar of honey inside the hollow tree.

“Man, I guarantees you, the pain will go through Curious George like a sack of green bananas.”

“Then I’ll kick Curious George in the knee,” Pooh said brightly, just before his face fell. “Um, monkey, which knee is his left?” he asked.

The evening of the death match arrived, and in the broadcast booth OJ Simpson shared duties with Andres Cantor and the borrowed corpse of Howard Cosell, who didn’t say much but did look dashing in a moldering tux.

Vegas odds makers had put the chances of Pooh winning at 264-1, but in his booster seat in the sponsor’s hi-rise box, the closet monkey knew he was going to see some magic. In fact, he had a cool 50Gs riding on Pooh to win it all. He kept thinking: “Left knee, Pooh you potato-brain, kick George’s left knee and daddy’s gonna ride all the way to the bank….”

The national anthem was sung by Ariel the Little Mermaid, then the referee, Popeye, gathered the combatants at the edge of Hundred-Acre Wood Arena, told them he expected a dirty, dirty fight and that anything from toe-biting to brown Hitler lips was in order. Finally after the fighters shook hands, George sneering, Pooh seeming bewildered by the entire occasion, the bell went off and the battle began.

From the start it was clear it was not going to be much of a fight as George scored blow after blow to the chubby bear’s flanks and stomach and smooth groin. Cocky now, sensing he had the crowd in his pocket, George went Three Stooges on the silly old bear, poking his eyes and twisting his nose while imitating the classic Stooges sound effects. By the mid-point of round one a little white cotton stuffing was seen leaking from Pooh’s nostrils.

Though Pooh did repeatedly lift his foot to kick out, his thick legs were just too slow and he kept missing quick George’s arrow-shot left knee by a country mile.

“Oh bother,” Pooh mumbled, “I do wish he’d stand still. And what I wouldn’t give for some honey right about now.”

The round mercilfully ended and the second began.

“Take him out this round,” the Man in the Yellow Hat said, winking at Curious George. “Bring me the fat gold imbecile’s head.”

“No problem!” George chittered, teeth bared.

“Oh, this is bad, bad, bad,” thought the closet monkey, as he sat in the executive box with a chimpanzee bimbo in his lap. “Ain’t there nothing I can do?”

 Then the solution came to him.

“Pooh!” closet monkey yelled above the crowd, “repeat after me! ‘KREE LUN AUS!’ “

“What?” Pooh inquired, somehow hearing closet monkey above the roaring crowd.

“Don’t think, just SHOUT it, Pooh, look straight at Curious George and SHOUT KREE LUN AUS!”

“Er, all right then,” Pooh agreed. “KREE….er, what was it again?”

“KREE LUN AUS! KREE LUN AUS!”

“Oh,” Pooh said brightly, “the Marked for Death Dragonborn shout!” He cleared his throat and shouted: “KREE LUN----ARRRRRRRGH!!!”

The crowd went silent as Pooh looked down to see a vicious scaled sword poking from his belly button straight out the small of his back.

Grinning evilly, Curious George chuckled and announced, “Say hello to my little friend, the plus-five Drake sword from the Undead Parish in Dark Souls!” With a twist he yanked the weapon free as Pooh fell dead trailing his polyester-fill innards.

The moral of the story? Dark Souls beats Skyrim every time….

[LilCerberus]

now that i'm appropriately medicated, my mojo comes & goes...............
http://www.badmovies.org/forum/index.php?topic=124122.0

[indianasmith]

NICE!!!!!!!!!!!!! 
Worth a laugh.  Pooh should have used FUS ROH DAH instead.  I have often wished for it in DARK SOULS.

[ER]

All right, let me try to make up another one 100% spontaneously on the spot...

The Khan Who Wrestled Death


Thrice upon a time the Khan of the Deadlands gathered together the wisest of the wise from the most remote edges of his far-flung domain and when they gathered before him under the moonlight on the shortest day of the year (for the Khan never slept in a building or even a tent) he posed but one question to them all:

"How may a man live forever?"

One spoke of an elixir of perpetual life he'd heard might exist inside a cave somewhere in the mountains. The Khan asked where this cave lay, and the wise man spoke vague words that showed he was merely hoping to be given gold to fund an expedition. To show his displeasure the Khan had this man blinded and fed to the sacred vultures in the grove of bones.

Several among the gathered sages repeated the long-ago promises of their person gods, the Lamb, the Last Prophet, the Lawgiver, the Enlightened One, but eternal life in those cases only came after physical death, so the Khan had them boiled alive in a giant pot that also held a pig, a cobra, a rabid dog, and a hermaphroditic child.

Still another, a Mandarin, claimed he knew a formula to petrify the body and set the soul free to wander forever as an all-seeing  ghost, connected to its host-form by a silver cord unseen by all save the wanderer himself, flying into the clouds, walking on the floor of the ocean, and peering into the secret lives of men, yet when asked why if he knew of such a formula he had not made use of it himself, the Mandarin stammered, beads of orange-scented sweat appearing on his brow, so the Khan had him bound hand and foot and buried under the ground where crawled the souls of those who died as cowards.

Finally no one remained in the line but a pale girl so young the Khan's riders laughed to see her and yet the Khan, who had ridden far and learned that sometimes knowledge was found in unexpected places, asked this child from the west of his conquered lands, "Little one who walks along the knife’s edge of my displeasure, do you know how I might live forever?"

"Yes," said the girl, brave in the face of peril, "be remembered."

The outriders who protected the Khan from treacherous blades to his back, for even the formidable might fall from those, started to laugh until they saw the look of curiosity on their master’s otherwise stony features. They fell silent as he asked, "And exactly how might I be recalled once my grandchildren are dead?”

"By cruelty. By destruction. By the echoing screams of a million victims to your power. By fire and steel and arrows and pain, by savagery so profound it will be spoken of til the end of time."

The Khan rewarded the girl with her weight in gemstones and coins minted in the days of Rome, then gathered his riders and set off to burn all the world within his reach.

He lived forever.

[indianasmith]

Depressing but sadly true.
We remember butchers longer than we do teachers or nurses.
Although Jesus and Buddha have done all right . . .

[ER]

And Mohammad was a genius of almost unsurpassed proportions, incorporating violence with faith to create a so-far unstoppable force.

[indianasmith]

I'm sure that's great comfort to him in hell.   

[ER]

I'm sure that's great comfort to him in hell.   

Funny!

[Trevor]

I wrote a short story in primary school dealing with an investigator called Orson Welles  (who dat?) who works on a case involving jewel theft: Mom still has it. The story was a cross between The X Files, Pink Flamingos and The Hardy Boys. 

I can't remember if the competition I wrote it for gave me a certificate or anything.

[ER]

Y'oughta share it, Trevor. Certainly sounds unique. 

[indianasmith]

I second that.

[ER]

The Big Band leader always wondered why the rich divorcee in Beverly Hills named her guard dog "Handy" until one day at the Brown Derby he met the woman's most recent ex-husband, and saw what he was missing.

[Alex]

Working on finishing a story. I'll post it up in here when I make some more progress on it.

[RCMerchant]

I can't read a long story online. I wish I could.
I just don't have the patience. Or I'm stoned.
I can read books all day long. But Online I'm leaning forward and smoking smokes, and straining my eyes- I can't do it. I can't read real long threads.
If I'm in the living room and Tiana is watching TV I can sit in the easy chair and block that.
But lying in bed with the TV on as back round noise helps me read.