Latest challenge is to RNG some crazily named apples into a story (here's hoping I roll up Crown Prince Rudolph), so I'm going to track them here. Not sure how inspiring some weird apple names are going to be, but what the hell.
Russet Beauty (lord)
Crow Egg (cool)
Prairie Spy (okay..)
They sound like lesser racehorse names. What's that series of thriller novels where the sleuth is a former jockey? Dick Francis? He'd have a field day with these.
Friday, October 10, 2014
Thursday, October 09, 2014
Perchance to Dream, Challenge
I've completed another Chuck Wendig challenge!
http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2014/10/03/flash-fiction-challenge-from-sentence-to-story/
This involved choosing a sentence that someone else had written. There were too many to choose from, so I RNG'd it (thanks http://www.random.org!) and ended up getting the sentence posted by
@kathleea
This is my story, hope ya'll enjoy.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Perchance to Dream
It took her six months to return from the grave where I put her; a year and a half, the time before that. Yet here we were again, speeding along I-93, driving back to her empty coffin.
Melissa had a habit of chewing on her hair when she was distressed; it drove me insane. She’d bow her head down, matted black hair hanging in front of her face, then lap at the closest strands with her tongue like a giraffe trying to reach the last few leaves clinging to a tree branch.
She was doing it right now, strapped into her booster chair in the backseat of the car. I tried to focus on the road ahead; the long hours behind the wheel were causing my eyes to ache and my temper to grow short.
“Missy. Stop that!” I said over my shoulder.
“Uhhhhhn,” she said. She rocked back and forth in the seat, finally catching a few strands of hair in her mouth and began slurping away happily.
The sound was like fingernails on a chalkboard; I winced and ground my teeth together, reaching for the radio dial and cranking the volume up; Bon Jovi. This was worse than the hair chewing. We kept on like this for a dozen more miles until I finally got fed up and swung the car off the road at the nearest rest stop, finding a parking space. Turning around in my seat, I leaned as far back as I could towards her and sniffed the air experimentally; the musky sweet scent of decomposing leaves in early fall, tinged with the acrid tang of formaldehyde. I sighed, daubing a bit of the perfume from the bottle I had in the glove box on her wrists; the grave stink was slight, but I didn’t feel like answering any awkward questions. I got out and walked around to her side, opening the door.
“Nooooooo,” she said unhappily, as I unlatched her seat belt and pulled on her arm.
“Missy, come on,” I said, pleading. “I’m hungry, and I have to pee. Just cause you don’t need to, doesn’t mean I don’t have to!”
“Nooooooo,” she said, finally allowing herself to be coaxed out of the vehicle. I slammed the door behind her, harder than I needed to, and guided her into the building. She immediately went into sensory overload at the rush of people; really, it wasn’t even crowded, but she had always had a hard time processing more than a dozen people at one time.
She started to make something of a scene, falling to the ground and rapid-fire kicking her heels against the tiles; people began to give her sideways glances.
“My sister’s autistic,” I said, by way of explanation. Even though it was true, it still felt like a cop-out; it’s not like anyone really understood what that meant, anyway, I don’t even know why I bothered saying it.
I somehow half bribed, half threatened her off the floor and hauled her across to the bathrooms as quick as she would let me. We somehow made it out of the bathroom without incident, even though she insisted on touching every disgusting thing in there, then complained when I used too much soap to scrub her hands clean. The line at the McDonald’s was, of course, ridiculously long; I almost gave up, halfway through, when she insisted that the stuffed Koala the little boy in line behind us was carrying was hers-- prompting more apologies on my part--but I soldiered through and got us back to the car unscathed.
We continued on, speeding along the freeway, remaining miles flying past; probably too fast on my part, but Tom would be up all night worrying about me and he had a big presentation tomorrow; I had promised him I’d be back by midnight. Melissa somehow never had a problem locating me, even though Tom and I had moved several times over the years for our respective careers. I thought again, for the umpteenth time, about giving up my job to be closer to her, but there were so many variables; this just seemed like the only way, for now, until I could afford a second house or apartment closer to accommodate her unannounced visits.
It was nighttime when I reached the graveyard, gravel crunching under the car’s tires and the headlights playing off the family tomb as I pulled up, the name MORTON carved in bas relief, characters stark white in the darkness.
This time Melissa stepped from the car without a fuss, quietly holding my hand and walking to the mausoleum. I crossed myself before we stepped in through the front doors, then walked with her to her coffin. She lifted her arms up and I bent down to pick her up and place her inside.
She looked up at me, her lower lip trembling.
“No; I sleep sistas!” she said.
“Sweetie, you died,” I said, tears springing to the corners of my eyes in spite of myself. “You can’t sleep with me; you have to stay here and rest, okay? You can’t keep coming back.”
She shook her head; she still didn’t understand. But as I tucked her into her coffin in the center of the mausoleum, smoothing her hair and begging her to stay asleep this time, she looked up at me and said, perfectly enunciating every word:
“Sista; scared. Scared.”
“I know, I know it’s scary; but you have to be brave. You’re the toughest kid I know, okay? You can handle this; it’s going to be just fine.”
I dosed her with a shot, the latest cocktail of drugs the doctors had whipped up; they promised this was the one that would let her rest for good. A coma had initially taken her away from us, and that first time she’d come back, Tom had fainted dead away seeing her on our doorstep. Melissa would die for months, but she’d always awaken and reappear somehow, lost and scared and sobbing on my doorstep.
Finally she settled back and lay still and I stood there for several minutes, wondering how long it would take before the undeath stirred in her chest and sent her from her grave again, searching for me, the only family she had left. I hoped this time she’d finally find her peace, but I knew; I could feel it in my gut that she’d be back again at my door.
Her chest finally stilled and I checked for a pulse; nothing. As I pulled the doors of the mausoleum shut, a familiar feeling of wretched helplessness crept over me, haunting me as I pulled out of the graveyard and drove home.
http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2014/10/03/flash-fiction-challenge-from-sentence-to-story/
This involved choosing a sentence that someone else had written. There were too many to choose from, so I RNG'd it (thanks http://www.random.org!) and ended up getting the sentence posted by
@kathleea
"It took her six months to return from the grave where I put her."
----------------------------------------------------------------
Perchance to Dream
It took her six months to return from the grave where I put her; a year and a half, the time before that. Yet here we were again, speeding along I-93, driving back to her empty coffin.
Melissa had a habit of chewing on her hair when she was distressed; it drove me insane. She’d bow her head down, matted black hair hanging in front of her face, then lap at the closest strands with her tongue like a giraffe trying to reach the last few leaves clinging to a tree branch.
She was doing it right now, strapped into her booster chair in the backseat of the car. I tried to focus on the road ahead; the long hours behind the wheel were causing my eyes to ache and my temper to grow short.
“Missy. Stop that!” I said over my shoulder.
“Uhhhhhn,” she said. She rocked back and forth in the seat, finally catching a few strands of hair in her mouth and began slurping away happily.
The sound was like fingernails on a chalkboard; I winced and ground my teeth together, reaching for the radio dial and cranking the volume up; Bon Jovi. This was worse than the hair chewing. We kept on like this for a dozen more miles until I finally got fed up and swung the car off the road at the nearest rest stop, finding a parking space. Turning around in my seat, I leaned as far back as I could towards her and sniffed the air experimentally; the musky sweet scent of decomposing leaves in early fall, tinged with the acrid tang of formaldehyde. I sighed, daubing a bit of the perfume from the bottle I had in the glove box on her wrists; the grave stink was slight, but I didn’t feel like answering any awkward questions. I got out and walked around to her side, opening the door.
“Nooooooo,” she said unhappily, as I unlatched her seat belt and pulled on her arm.
“Missy, come on,” I said, pleading. “I’m hungry, and I have to pee. Just cause you don’t need to, doesn’t mean I don’t have to!”
“Nooooooo,” she said, finally allowing herself to be coaxed out of the vehicle. I slammed the door behind her, harder than I needed to, and guided her into the building. She immediately went into sensory overload at the rush of people; really, it wasn’t even crowded, but she had always had a hard time processing more than a dozen people at one time.
She started to make something of a scene, falling to the ground and rapid-fire kicking her heels against the tiles; people began to give her sideways glances.
“My sister’s autistic,” I said, by way of explanation. Even though it was true, it still felt like a cop-out; it’s not like anyone really understood what that meant, anyway, I don’t even know why I bothered saying it.
I somehow half bribed, half threatened her off the floor and hauled her across to the bathrooms as quick as she would let me. We somehow made it out of the bathroom without incident, even though she insisted on touching every disgusting thing in there, then complained when I used too much soap to scrub her hands clean. The line at the McDonald’s was, of course, ridiculously long; I almost gave up, halfway through, when she insisted that the stuffed Koala the little boy in line behind us was carrying was hers-- prompting more apologies on my part--but I soldiered through and got us back to the car unscathed.
We continued on, speeding along the freeway, remaining miles flying past; probably too fast on my part, but Tom would be up all night worrying about me and he had a big presentation tomorrow; I had promised him I’d be back by midnight. Melissa somehow never had a problem locating me, even though Tom and I had moved several times over the years for our respective careers. I thought again, for the umpteenth time, about giving up my job to be closer to her, but there were so many variables; this just seemed like the only way, for now, until I could afford a second house or apartment closer to accommodate her unannounced visits.
It was nighttime when I reached the graveyard, gravel crunching under the car’s tires and the headlights playing off the family tomb as I pulled up, the name MORTON carved in bas relief, characters stark white in the darkness.
This time Melissa stepped from the car without a fuss, quietly holding my hand and walking to the mausoleum. I crossed myself before we stepped in through the front doors, then walked with her to her coffin. She lifted her arms up and I bent down to pick her up and place her inside.
She looked up at me, her lower lip trembling.
“No; I sleep sistas!” she said.
“Sweetie, you died,” I said, tears springing to the corners of my eyes in spite of myself. “You can’t sleep with me; you have to stay here and rest, okay? You can’t keep coming back.”
She shook her head; she still didn’t understand. But as I tucked her into her coffin in the center of the mausoleum, smoothing her hair and begging her to stay asleep this time, she looked up at me and said, perfectly enunciating every word:
“Sista; scared. Scared.”
“I know, I know it’s scary; but you have to be brave. You’re the toughest kid I know, okay? You can handle this; it’s going to be just fine.”
I dosed her with a shot, the latest cocktail of drugs the doctors had whipped up; they promised this was the one that would let her rest for good. A coma had initially taken her away from us, and that first time she’d come back, Tom had fainted dead away seeing her on our doorstep. Melissa would die for months, but she’d always awaken and reappear somehow, lost and scared and sobbing on my doorstep.
Finally she settled back and lay still and I stood there for several minutes, wondering how long it would take before the undeath stirred in her chest and sent her from her grave again, searching for me, the only family she had left. I hoped this time she’d finally find her peace, but I knew; I could feel it in my gut that she’d be back again at my door.
Her chest finally stilled and I checked for a pulse; nothing. As I pulled the doors of the mausoleum shut, a familiar feeling of wretched helplessness crept over me, haunting me as I pulled out of the graveyard and drove home.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Challenge revised: Edit!
As promised, here is my official revision: if you'd like to skip ahead, I've underlined the changed parts. I think this works a lot better!
-----------------
She walked down the tunnel with great trepidation, casting the beam of light about with quick, nervous gestures, the cold stone floor rough beneath her toes.
The passage culminated in a portal: a pure black oval that swallowed the light from her torch as if she had pointed it up into the night sky. It hung in midair, thin as a pane of glass, not quite touching the wall behind it. Unsure what to do, and not willing to touch it, she probed the darkness with the tip of the machete. From the other side a great force pulled on the blade, and before she could let go she was pulled into the void entirely.
She found herself lying flat on her back, squinting up into a bright sun hanging overhead; a great headache surged through her temples, setting her ears to ringing. Pulling herself to her feet, she was surprised to see she was no longer in the hallway or even the house; she stood in an open field, verdant grass speckled with the bright purples and yellows of wildflowers growing waist-high.
A trail of gore was here, however, matting down the grass; something heavy had been dragged along, and she followed the bloody path to the edge of a thin, trickling stream. On the far side the monster crouched over a great hunk of flesh, tearing off gobbets of meat and shoving them into its mouth. It raised its head up and looked her in the eye as she approached, gore dripping from its fangs; she stepped back, afraid, brandishing the machete.
"You are nothing," it said, disdain tinging its deep baritone. "Run, if you like. The thrill is in the chase, after all."
It smiled before bending its head back over its meal.
A horrible rage possessed her and she rushed across the shallow river, bringing the machete down hard; the blade lodged deep into the creatures shoulder. The monster looked up at her calmly before backhanding her, sending her sprawling onto her backside in a daze.
Images swum before her eyes: thousands of spiders crawling from the shadowy corners of her wardrobe; a child playing innocently in his room as a monster peered out from the shadows; her father’s face, scowling with disapproval; it was a look she recognized, one he'd wear when she'd done something wrong, one that preceded him sending her to her room in terror to await the lash of his belt across her backside. His face transformed back into the monster, and he was biting down into her shoulder, hard, crunching her bones with his teeth. She screamed.
She came to in the boy's bedroom, lying halfway out of his wardrobe closet. Paramedics lifted her up onto a stretcher as a Police officer, seeing her awake, began to read her her Miranda rights. She started to thrash, panicked.
"Don't move," said the Paramedic. "You've been shot, you need to lie still."
"I don't understand."
"Let me clear it up for you," said the Cop. "You broke into this poor family's house and chopped their kid up into pieces with a machete. The Dad found you and shot you before you could murder anyone else in their sleep."
"No! There was a monster! I was following a monster..."
"Get this lunatic out of here," the Cop said to the Paramedic, and they wheeled her out into the waiting ambulance.
"Wake up," she said, fighting against the restraints. "Wake up! None of this is real.”
The doors to the ambulance slammed shut and the Cop sat in the corner watching her, arms folded, wearing the deep, disapproving scowl of her father.
“It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real,” she chanted to herself as the ambulance pulled away, siren wailing.
Friday, September 26, 2014
Three problems with my story.
I've been reflecting a bit on the flash challenge and what I wrote from a critical standpoint. There are three things about my piece that I don't like, which I'll touch on here before I crank out another draft.
First, I tried to change the Monster. No disrespect at all intended to my predecessor, but one of my motivations for subversion was my enormous dislike of that character; while I'm certainly permitted to change what I want, part of the challenge was working within the framework of what came before, and I tried to do too much with the limited space I had.
This leads into the Panther character I introduced, who was essentially a stand in for the Monster. In his scene, I had more dialogue and more of a revelation in regards to his purpose and what he's chewing on, (hint: it's the Monster!) but even after major cuts I was still over the word limit. This led to a stilted interaction and a weak transition to the next scene--her hitting her head on a rock.
The problem with that resolution to the encounter is protagonist agency: Savannah isn't doing something (protag-ing!), something is happening to her. A better approach would be a showdown with the Monster--which I tried intentionally to avoid, since I felt railroaded into it--and trust that the ending is strong enough to support it.
I'll take this back to the lab and cook up a rewrite before the weekend is out.
First, I tried to change the Monster. No disrespect at all intended to my predecessor, but one of my motivations for subversion was my enormous dislike of that character; while I'm certainly permitted to change what I want, part of the challenge was working within the framework of what came before, and I tried to do too much with the limited space I had.
This leads into the Panther character I introduced, who was essentially a stand in for the Monster. In his scene, I had more dialogue and more of a revelation in regards to his purpose and what he's chewing on, (hint: it's the Monster!) but even after major cuts I was still over the word limit. This led to a stilted interaction and a weak transition to the next scene--her hitting her head on a rock.
The problem with that resolution to the encounter is protagonist agency: Savannah isn't doing something (protag-ing!), something is happening to her. A better approach would be a showdown with the Monster--which I tried intentionally to avoid, since I felt railroaded into it--and trust that the ending is strong enough to support it.
I'll take this back to the lab and cook up a rewrite before the weekend is out.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Challenge! The Wardrobe Monster
From Chuck Wendig’s Flash fiction challenge:
In which Mozette’s story from the previous challenge was begun:
and continued by the delightful John Freeter:
Which I present to you, in its entirety, now concluded:
The Wardrobe Monster
Part 1 (by Mozette):
The power had gone out soon after the storm started up, and pretty soon after, her e-reader died too. She looked outside and noticed the whole neighborhood was in darkness. Sighing, Savannah showered by torchlight and went off to bed.
But not for long… only a few minutes after she switched off her torch, she started hearing noises coming from her wardrobe – noises she had never heard before.
Unnatural noises.
Her folks had told her there was no such thing as monsters when she was a kid.
That was crap.
She knew it.
But then, she had seen this thing destroy people’s lives in a split second, and now she was sitting up in her bed terrified of it.
Savannah knew it was crap, and closed her eyes, “It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real…” she kept chanting to herself to see if it would make the noise in her wardrobe stop.
To make her mind from going crazy…
To make her nerves from being on edge…
…to make her relax again.
She pulled the covers of her bed up to her chin and watched the door handle of the wardrobe as the shadow of the trees moved across it, “Crap, I’m in my twenties and …” she swallowed dryly, “I’m too fucking old for this shit!” kicking off her covers, she pulled on her Ugg boots, dressing gown and grabbed the waterproof torch she kept by her bed when storms like this hit and switched it back on. Walking toward the wardrobe, she followed the large circle of light.
Five feet out, the noise started to sound like a grunting pig. She thought it was cute – but weird – seeing it came from where her clothes were stored.
Three feet out, her gut cooled as she heard scratching coming from inside… along with screams. The grunting was gone.
One foot, and Savannah noticed smoke was seeping from underneath the doors as she reached forward to open the door…
The door handle suddenly rattled loudly… clearly… and…
The whole door shuddered as though somebody bashed against it!
Savannah shuffled back, tripped over her glory box at the end of her bed, and sat on the end of her bed as the two wardrobe doors opened…
Part 2 (by John Freeter):
A large gray hoof emerged from inside, and landed on the carpet with a heavy thud. Two large hands—a man’s hairy hands—grasped the edges of the open wardrobe as the monster poked its head into the room. The monster turned towards Savannah, still frozen at the end of her bed.
It stood upon its back hoofs, staring her down. It had Savannah’s favorite green dress draped upon its vaguely human shoulders. Two long yellow tusks stuck from the sides of its thick snout. Its small black eye gleamed as the flash of distant thunder flooded into Savannah’s bedroom.
A beat later, the blast of the thunderbolt crashing to the ground reached them. Savannah dove towards her glory box, flipped the lid open and grasped the plastic handle of the machete stored inside. She swung the heavy blade at the monster, but only slashed the hem of her green dress as the monster leapt towards the window. Shards of broken glass sailed into the night as the noise of the storm outside entered Savannah’s bedroom.
She raced down the stairs and bolted out of the front door. She picked up her bicycle, left carelessly on the lawn, and chased the monster through her neighborhood.
The freezing rain pelted her body as she pedaled through the empty streets. With the lights out, she couldn’t see beyond a few feet in front of her, but the strident clacking of the monster’s hoofs as it raced down the street led her way. She chased after it one block after the other for almost ten minutes, steering the bike with one hand while gripping the machete with the other, when the road ahead of her fell silent. She braked. The bike’s tires skidded over the wet pavement. Savannah squinted, trying to spot the monster through the thick rain. Nothing.
Just as she had given up and turned to go back home, a massive thunderbolt tore through the sky, illuminating her surroundings. She spotted a broken window on one of the suburban houses lining the road, its wooden frame shattered. She knew it must’ve been the monster, and ran towards the house, letting her bike fall on the pavement with a muted clang.
She twisted the entrance’s golden doorknob. It twisted without difficulty. People rarely locked their doors in that peaceful bit of the world. Savannah tiptoed into the living room. Her soaked Ugg boots squished with every step, so she tossed them aside. As the boots landed on the floor, she heard grunting coming from upstairs. She followed the noise.
Savannah’s nightgown clung to her body, soaked in cold rainwater which dripped on the stairs—tap, tap, tap—as she slowly made her way towards the monster. Her heart raced and her lips trembled from the cold, but the machete’s long blade remained steady in her hand.
She finally reached the end of the stairs. Everything seemed undisturbed. Only the grunting coming from one of the upstairs bedrooms gave the monster’s presence away. Savannah gripped the doorknob, holding her machete over her head. She burst inside.
“Oh my god…”
Blood. Blood everywhere. Soaked into the carpet, dripping from the ceilings, splashed on the walls. A boy’s tiny foot poked from under the bed. It wasn’t attached to the rest of the body. In fact, the rest of the body was nowhere to be seen.
Savannah entered the room, the warm blood on the carpet sticking to her bare soles. The boy’s wardrobe was open. A faint smoky haze rose from inside, smelling of rotten eggs. A thick blood trail led from the boy’s bed to the wardrobe. Savannah peeked inside. Instead of the boy’s clothes, she found a long rock tunnel stretching from the wardrobe’s entrance—some kind of portal. She took her torch from her nightgown’s pocket and switched it on as she went inside.
Savannah knew it was too late to save the boy, but not to stop that monster.
Part 3 (me!):
She walked down the tunnel with great trepidation, casting the beam of light about using quick, nervous gestures, the cold stone floor rough beneath her toes.
The passage culminated in a portal: a pure black oval that swallowed the light from her torch as if she had pointed it up into the night sky. It hung in midair, thin as a pane of glass, not quite touching the wall behind it. Unsure what to do, and not willing to touch it, she probed the darkness with the tip of the machete. From the other side a great force pulled on the blade, and before she could let go she was pulled into the void entirely.
She found herself lying flat on her back, squinting up into bright sun hanging overhead, a great headache surging in her temples and setting her ears to ringing. Pulling herself to her feet, she was surprised to see she was no longer in the hallway or even the house; she stood in an open field, verdant grass speckled with the bright purples and yellows of wildflowers growing waist-high.
A trail of gore was here, however, matting down the grass; something heavy had been dragged along, and she followed the bloody path to the edge of a thin, trickling stream. On the far side sat a panther, crouched over a great hunk of flesh, worrying it with it’s great jaws. It raised its head up and looked her in the eye as she approached, gore dripping from its fangs. She stepped back, afraid.
"You must not come here," the Panther said. "Go back, now. Go back the way you came."
"Where am I?" she said.
He shook his head, disdain tinging his deep baritone. "No; nevermind, you’re too late. Poor Savannah. Poor, poor, girl.”
He bent his head back over his meal.
Her hesitation vanished when he threw his head back and roared; she turned and ran. Something hit her upper back, hard, and she stumbled and fell, striking her head against a rock hidden in the tall grass.
Faces swum before her eyes: the panther, the evil creature as it emerged from her wardrobe, her father's disapproving scowl; she recognized that look, the one he'd wear when she'd done something wrong, the one that preceded him sending her to her room in terror to await the lash of his belt across her backside. His face transformed back into the monster, and he was biting down into her shoulder, hard, crunching her bones with his teeth. She screamed.
She came to in the boy's bedroom, lying halfway out of his wardrobe closet. Paramedics lifted her up onto a stretcher as a Police officer, seeing her awake, began to read her her Miranda rights. She started to thrash, panicked.
"Don't move," said the Paramedic. "You've been shot, you need to lie still."
"I don't understand."
"Let me clear it up for you," said the Cop. "You broke into this poor family's house and chopped their kid up into pieces with a machete. The Dad found you and shot you before you could murder anyone else in their sleep."
"No! There was a monster! I was following a monster..."
"Get this lunatic out of here," the Cop said to the Paramedic, and they wheeled her out into the waiting ambulance.
"Wake up," she said, fighting against the restraints. "Wake up! None of this is real.”
The doors to the ambulance slammed shut and the Cop sat in the corner watching her, arms folded, wearing the deep, disapproving scowl of her father.
“It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real,” she chanted to herself as the ambulance pulled away, siren wailing.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Yeeaaaaaah....
You can always tell when there’s a crisis around here. I was talking to one of the Enterprise guys (he plays WoW) for a bit, then walked through the server rooms and came back to my desk. Complete atmosphere change out here; I overheard an “I thought I had..” excuse as I walked by. Apparantly they messed up again out there. I’d recommend less time sleeping and more time paying attention in the future, but that’s just me. Anyway, I haven’t been writing much lately, been in a funk. I did come up with some random stuff last Friday I’ll post at the end here. The first movie I’m watching here on the new monitors is Office Space; so amazingly appropriate. Also in the same vein is an awesome book, Company, by Max Barry. Anyone that’s ever worked in any sort of corporate environment can relate, and it’s got a few good twists in the story to boot.
I came up with this gem after having an issue with one of our clients, Schwab. Sha-waaab. Yeah.
Yarr Shwabbby
Cotton balls squeal in antiseptic delight, awaiting the fruition of their existence. Bloodily absorbing fresh wounds, they retreat to multiply in the dark, humid confines of the garbage. Bursting from the plastic confine, they messily crush the hapless sanitation worker into the pavement and roll down the sidewalk, leaving a trail of viscera. Brave firemen wielding flamethrowers stand nervously at attention in their path, a desperate bid to save the rest of the city. Flames embrace the errant balls, charring their surfaces black. The men raise their weapons in the air, celebrating victory over the cottony balls of death, until a shredding sound interrupts them mid-cheer; clawing from the oozing centers rise three nougat caramel chews, wreathed in the flames of hell. They boil the gasoline in the firemen’s own canisters, which violently explode in turn. Gurgling liquid chocolate, the hell candies torch the rest of the city, eventually collapsing in a pool of melted caramel as their own fires squelch them into oblivion.
I came up with this gem after having an issue with one of our clients, Schwab. Sha-waaab. Yeah.
Yarr Shwabbby
Cotton balls squeal in antiseptic delight, awaiting the fruition of their existence. Bloodily absorbing fresh wounds, they retreat to multiply in the dark, humid confines of the garbage. Bursting from the plastic confine, they messily crush the hapless sanitation worker into the pavement and roll down the sidewalk, leaving a trail of viscera. Brave firemen wielding flamethrowers stand nervously at attention in their path, a desperate bid to save the rest of the city. Flames embrace the errant balls, charring their surfaces black. The men raise their weapons in the air, celebrating victory over the cottony balls of death, until a shredding sound interrupts them mid-cheer; clawing from the oozing centers rise three nougat caramel chews, wreathed in the flames of hell. They boil the gasoline in the firemen’s own canisters, which violently explode in turn. Gurgling liquid chocolate, the hell candies torch the rest of the city, eventually collapsing in a pool of melted caramel as their own fires squelch them into oblivion.
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