Cranky-D

In honor of “Talk like a pirate” day, I bring you a post from three years ago, based on the 100-word stories format. Enjoy!

“What kind of beer do you want?” she asked. “And don’t call me wench.”

“My apologies, lass, ’tis ‘Talk Like a Pirate Day,’ don’t ya’ know. Arr.”

“Should I come back?”

“No, thanks, I’ll have a pitcher of Summit Seasonal. Two glasses.”

“Okay.”

His friends arrived a bit later.

“Arrr,” he said.

“Arrr,” one replied.

“Shiver me timbers,” said the other.

They sat down at the table.

“Another glass, wench,” said the glassless one. “Arr.”

“You don’t know any more pirate phrases, do you?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

“Arr.”

“Arr.”

“Arr.”

100 word stories are back.

Today’s topic is a new astrological sign.

He saw an attractive woman at the bar. He decided to give it a shot.

“So, what’s your sign?” He tried to work up an ironic expression to demonstrate his abounding coolness.

She looked at him with a small smile. “You first.”

“I’m a Gemini.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. I’m an AntiGemini. It could never work between us. I’m like antimatter to your matter.”

“But, since I’m a Gemini, I’m twins. How can you cancel out both of them?”

“It’s either that or my second option.”

“And that is?”

“I find you repulsive.”

“I can live with AntiGemini.”

“That’s good.”

Update: I got moved to the front page. Woohoo!.

Topic

“Don’t run with scissors.” His mother’s voice seemed to echo with a sound remembered but not heard.

All his thoughts were fuzzy, his brain seemed to be wrapped in gauze. His consciousness hovered a few inches behind the back of his head.

Distantly, he felt the cold metal buried in his gut. Whenever he tried to move, he slammed back inside his own head due to the increased pain.

He felt something warm and wet in the front of his pants. “Always wear clean underwear,” he heard his mother say, “in case you’re in an accident.”

“Doesn’t matter now, mom.”

Topic is welcome home.

The back door squeaks when I open it. Once inside the kitchen, I see the stuff piled on the kitchen table, with enough space cleaned off for a couple of dinner plates.

Like always.

Into the living room. More stuff. The accumulation of years of living, with not much thought given to disposal of things no longer required. I guess none of the things are required, really.

Mom would never have tolerated the mess.

The cat sees me and runs away. Actually, meanders away. She’s getting pretty old.

“The sinks are plugged again,” says my father.

Big surprise.

I’m home.

Topic was what you’d say to people at your high-school reunion

High school reunion. Sounds like a great time. Really.

I don’t want a reunion. I want a union of certain people’s skulls with a baseball bat. Then we can have a reunion immediately if it’s called for.

I don’t need to say anything else to them. “The Slugger” does all my talking. Too bad it’s probably too late to take them out before they bred. By now, if they haven’t spawned, they probably won’t.

Let’s face it. They were people of limited imagination and limited abilities. They’re probably selling insurance or used cars. Their sad little lives are punishment enough.

Topic was something that happens at sundown.

“What will happen when the sun disappears?” Even now, it was low on the horizon. It would soon be gone.

Every being in his race emerged fully formed and completely knowledgeable about the world around them and their place in it. However, no one living knew anything but sunlight.

“No one knows. The priests say it will be then end of all life.”

They watched, and waited. The sun sank. Soon it was dark, and the stars appeared.

Suddendly, they knew there was such a thing as male and female, and that they had to soon mate before they died.

Topic was useless superpower.

I can read women’s minds.

The guys out there might think that’s a good thing. It isn’t. Believe me, even if you know what they want you to do, most of the time they aren’t happy with that, either. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard a woman think, “I wish he’d open the door for me,” and then when I do it, give me hell for it, saying, “I can take care of myself.”

Trust me, you don’t want to know what they’re thinking.

I finally had to withdraw from society. I can’t stop reading their minds.

Topic

I think my entry is quite “eeeeh.” Limp. Lame.

“Congradulations! We sold the movie rights to your book for two million dollars.”

“Wow. Fantastic.” I though how I could spend that money. After I paid all the bills of course. Critical acclaim does not necessarily translate to monetary success, especially after all those novels that were summarily rejected.

“So, do they know who’s going to direct it?” I asked. I hoped it would be Scorcese.

“Two million, my friend. Two. Million. Dollars.”

I began to get suspicous. “Who is it?”

“Schumacher.”

“Who?”

“He did ‘St. Elmo’s Fire,’ and ‘Falling Down.’”

“Huh. Do I have to promote it?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Topic.

“Oh, my bones ache.”

“You always say that. There’s nothing else that could ache with you, you boney bastard.”

“Oh, ha, ha, ha, I haven’t heard that one before. Today.

“I’m working on a joint potion for you right now, Mr. Whiney. You should be rattling around like a newly-bleached skeleton in no time.” She stirred the pot a bit. A toad floated to the surface.

“Oh, ick,” said the skeleton. “What is it with witches and toads?”

“Dooooooooooooooo.”

“Ignore him,” said the witch.

“Dooooooooooooooo.”

“Who is that?”

“The ghost sent to haunt me for paying my bills late.”

“Bummer.”

The topic was surrender.

It would be so easy. He could just continue to lie where he was. Why move? What’s the point? No one would care either way.

He was tired, so tired. And he hurt. His left shoulder was stiff. It hardly had any range of motion. And why was it sore? He slept on it wrong. He remembered when that much pain was the result of a football game. And the pain never lasted so long.

If he didn’t move, he didn’t hurt. Stay still.

“Daddy, I need help.”

He sighed, and started to move. Joints popped and squeaked. “Coming sweety.”

The topic is to make up a new season.

BTW, this is lame. My writing, that is, not the topic.

Here in the North, in the Great Lakes region, there are only two seasons, summer and winter. Summer lasts almost 4 months when we’re lucky, 3 when we aren’t. Winter lasts about 6 months when we’re lucky, 7 when we’re not.

Then there are the transistional seasons, spummer and fanter. For spummer, the weather goes cold hot cold hot cold hot and stays hot. Spummer lasts at least a month, at most two months. For fanter, the opposite happens, and it usually lasts two months.

Still, sometimes this is better than Southern California. There, they just have summer and blah.

The topic was baseball.

Yeah, I’m a few days late. Just playing catch-up.

“What’s that they’re doing?”

“They’re playing a game. It’s called baseball.”

“Hmmm.” His tentacles waved with curiousity. “How does it work?”

“They have two groups called teams. One team waits in that green area. The leader of the team throws a white sphereoid at a member of the other team, who tries to hit the sphereoid with a piece of cellulose fiber called a bat. If he’s successful, he runs towards those white squares. If the other team gets the sphereoid to the white square first, the runner is ‘out’. Otherwise, he’s ’safe.’”

“Huh. And I thought sklortch was weird.”

Today’s topic is a question about those inappropriate names for housing developments.

Not UTI, just insomniac theater. So, I thought I’d get up again and see if the topic had been posted already. It was.

Sarah’s mother put an apple pie in the window sill to cool a few minutes ago. It has already slid off the sill and fallen pie-side down in the grass.

Sarah was out riding her bicycle. She just fell down and scraped most of the skin from both knees.

Over there is Mr. Brown. He’s the one with the walker that just came apart. It appears he has a compound fracture. The ambulance is on the way.

Little Timmy is crying. He just found what’s left of his dog Lassie in the street.

It’s another dismal day in “Unhappy Acres.”

Topic is Bang!

“What was that?”

“I don’t know, but it probably isn’t good.”

“Should I clear the guns?”

“Yeah. Precautionary at this time, but do it. And examine for external sources.”

“Prelimary scans show no weapon hits. Deep scan results in a moment.”

“I guess I’m nervous,” said the first, “because of our cargo.” He could hear the noise from the cargo bay, the hamsters running on the wheels in their cages. Hamsters were sacred creatures on Virgo 4, valued pets everywhere else.

“No contacts,” said the second. “Smooth sailing.”

“Good. Do we have enough food pellets and wood chips?”

“Wood chips?”

The topic is “I’m sorry.”

Also, I’m officially late on this one.

I heard some rustling in the stack of crap under the window. That could only mean that my mouse roommate was active. The little guy was welcome to whatever he could find.

A few minutes later I noticed some motion out of the corner of my eye. I looked down and I saw the mouse, by the light of the television, in the middle of the living room. I moved. The mouse’s legs shot out in all directions, and he ran under the couch and started scolding me.

I left a few macademia nuts on the kitchen floor to apologize.

In honor of “Talk Like a Pirate” day, the topic.

“Arr, wench, a cup of grog for me,” he said.

“What kind of beer do you want?” she asked. “And don’t call me wench.”

“My apologies, lass, ’tis ‘Talk Like a Pirate Day,’ don’t ya’ know. Arr.”

“Should I come back?”

“No, thanks, I’ll have a pitcher of Summit Seasonal. Two glasses.”

“Okay.”

His friends arrived a bit later.

“Arrr,” he said.

“Arrr,” one replied.

“Shiver me timbers,” said the other.

They sat down at the table.

“Another glass, wench,” said the glassless one. “Arr.”

“You don’t know any more pirate phrases, do you?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

“Arr.”

“Arr.”

“Arr.”

Today’s topic: You are standing by a lake.

Fiction, non-fiction, it’s all the same to me.

The lake was, of course, frozen, since it was only March. He hoped the ice was thick enough. His host assured him it was.

For his first time on a snowmobile, he pulled onto the ice and cruised around a little bit, then decided the best way to avoid being skittish was to just pin it and see what she would do. The 600cc sled went to an indicated 70 before he let off the throttle. Plenty of lake left.

After a few hours riding the trails, he got to ride the 1000cc sled on the lake. It went 100.

Today’s topic is the word earth.

BTW, I am not trying to open any wounds here. The idea chain that made me arrive here will follow the story.

He put the shovel to the earth one last time.

“Goodbye again, old friend.”

He awaited the next full moon with some anticipation. He heard a scratching at the back door. He sighed, got up, and opened it. There was Sam, looking somewhat the worse for wear after being dead these past six months. There was an offering of a gopher on the porch step.

“Good kitty.”

He let Sam in, noting that Sam’s rib and hip bones were now completely exposed. He knew that tomorrow morning Sam would be lifeless again.

“This time I’ll have to bury you deeper.”

The thought process was earth, as in dirt. Then I thought of burying things. Then I thought of burying pets, and then Pet Semetary. Then, the idea hit: what if your dead pets came back, but instead of being evil, they were just the same as they always were, and ignorant of their condition?

So much for keeping up with the 100 words project.

I tried, but it’s easy to get sidetracked when you’re away from home. Once my father returned from Alaska I found it easier to go to the gym, take a shower, read a book or some web pages, go to the bar with him, then go home and sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat.

However, now I’m back in my own little part of a house, Southern California a distant or not-so-distant memory. So, time to start writing. Again, I will try to keep up with the topics. We’ll see if it actually happens.

On a lighter note, I’ve had a few job opportunities. They all seem to be in Washington state. It rains a lot there. I absolutely hate rain. The place is full of liberals who seem bent on social engineering the people, as well as taking away their rights to self-defense. I hate that, too.

G-d is laughing at me.

The question is, do I take the plunge and interview with them anyway? I might get desperate enough to move there, but Jeebus, I would probably hate myself for doing it.

I agreed to a phone pre-pre-interview later today. If that goes well, there’s a pre-interview opportunity on monday. I don’t have a suit yet, so I guess I’ve already failed that one.

I hate being a grown-up.

Today’s topic is the word insomnia.

I remember being able to sleep. It’s been a while.

I spend a lot of time reading web pages. Luckily there is so much material out there that I never run out of things to read. I can’t concentrate long enough to read novels any more.

The television is on for the noise.

Every few days I try strong drink. It will induce passing out for a few hours, but as soon as it wears off I’m awake again. Then I’m hung-over as well as tired.

Sleeping was heavenly. Now it’s dark all the time and sleep won’t come.

Hell.