A story by Kris Straub
Another bullet struck him, and another, another; now waves of terror tore through him as he clutched his flesh in search of new wounds gushing blood. None.
“Stop,” he shrieked. “I’ve had enough, get me out of here! It works! Please!”
The man behind the rifle turned to his investors. “You see. Another few rounds and any combatant becomes a sobbing mess. So it’s fully non-lethal — provided the fear ammunition doesn’t give them a heart attack.” The group laughed.
“You’ve found fear to be the most effective round, then?” one asked.
“Almost,” said the man, loading a fresh magazine labeled ENNUI.
Stephen Heintz forgot to title this story
“A magic talking monkey! Incredible!â€
It sighed. “As I’ve said several times now: I’m a chimpanzee.â€
The human was bouncing with excitement. “Who cares? You’re magic!â€
“I care? Chimps are smarter, we don’t have tails… It’s a pretty big difference.†The chimpanzee rolled its eyes.
“Can you grant wishes?â€
“Sure, lots of ‘em. To people who don’t call me a monkey.â€
The human stomped his foot. “So that’s it? I don’t get wishes?â€
“That’s right.â€
“You’re an asshole!â€
“No, I’m a chimpanzee.â€
The human reached for his machete. I can probably get a few wishes out of that paw, he thought.
Suddenly a Ninja Dave appears
The clockwork man made of springs and mostly wicker moved closer to the little girl. “So warm,†the creature crooned in a disembodied voice, its gears whirring and clicking as it moved closer, limbs crackling like a forest fire. The girl screamed as the clockwork man leapt at her. Afterwards, the clockwork man wiped the warm, dark fluid from his sharpened teeth and looked down at himself. The girl’s myriad innards were running, oozing, dangling awkwardly from his exposed inner-workings. With no digestive system, this feeding had resulted, simply, in a sticky mess. “This isn’t what I expected,†the creature sighed.
A story by Grumpy Tim Coe
We will build houses, we will move mountains. We will put villages and villagers into valleys of contemporaneous security, license animated characters and unconventional love songs to commemorate our great groundbreaking. Men with trucks and ladders and wills will arrive early, early, early, flash their hammers and saws and seize lumber and wire, building houses, churches, stores, a depot. Their tools ring out into the bright dawn. Their even tans attest to the morality of good work. Love is a building, and they are building. They are loving. They are here for us, and by us. What can stop us now.
This is the fault of Ben Carson
After they took off, the clouds came down to envelop them. Wilhelmina grips the controls and peers through the Curtiss Condor’s windshield.
Adamson, her navigator, is behind her in the cabin, stiffened and dead from snakebite. On the seat next to her there is a glint of gold; something peeks out from a worn leather satchel. Too late for poor Adamson but the idol vindicates their claims, drowning out the scoffery of those salon-bound fools.
Wilhelmina glances at the fuel gauge struggling above reserve before firmly setting her eyes upon the roiling haze in front of her. Zero she flies.
Hello. This is my last scheduled story on this site. You can read some sardonic thoughts about the project in retrospect, if you like.
The saw goes that mastery requires ten thousand hours of practice. By that measure, I’m now about one-fifth of halfway decent at writing goofy 101-word stories. But despite my occasional assertions, there are other ways to learn than doing, and one of them is aping your betters. I’ve persuaded some of the superstars I ape to write guest posts here for the next couple weeks. Lucky me!
Thanks, gentle reader. You have been unfailingly kind.
Nobody’s ever going to build you a flying car, and you wouldn’t be permitted to fly it if they did. The music on the radio still won’t be good by our fortieth birthday, but someone will make that awful rhyming joke. You’ll still have a project due in a week, and it’s kind of neat, and if you could just find a girl who understood, you could get your plans together for the first time in what seems so long–it’s May 3rd, 2021, and–
Please remember that the world is round.
Please recall that you are never on level ground.
A gust through one open window, and the tarot goes whipping away out the other. Madame Zaganza yelps; Holly clears the sill like a hurdler. The scar on her hand barely bothers to ache.
She finds cards in gutters and tree branches, but a good deck is waxed to protect the inks, and these have all washed blank. She wipes wet hair from her forehead. Then she realizes what that means.
The storm pounds like the pulse of a giant, and Holly opens her arms: soaked to the skin, cold and laughing. She drinks the rain until her heart is full.
She frames it like she saw on a TV show once, studs at sixteen inches, or anyway the breadth of two spread hands. Without sheetrock, she panels the walls in masonite, like an old movie set facade. You could tear it apart with any crude pry bar. Maybe one day somebody will.
It’s not quite square, the little room. When she looks it over she mostly sees the flaws. But it’s her own.
Aldous found two brass numerals, backstage: the number that comes after twelve. She tacks them to her door to nowhere, and opens it, and leaves the house behind.
Thirty years is an eyetwitch once you’re measuring your age in millennia, but Longinus can’t believe he almost missed the window. They’re only doing two more of these.
He contemplated a number of ways of getting aboard, even the traditional qualification, but math always made him go soft. Folded instead into a tiny crate labelled BRINE SHRIMP, he wonders if this compartment is even vacuum-sealed. But what’s it going to do? Kill him?
Endeavor begins to tremble on the pad and, for all his cynicism, he’s excited. Cursed to walk the earth forever. Yeah, well.
One way to fix that.