Author: R.

Gator

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Andrew Ian Dodge gets into the reptilian mind of…

Grraauug lay in the water by the canal resting in the mid-day Sun; trying not to sleep. His sleep was bothered by strange noises and visions; it had been for days. He kept feeling odd urges to eat things he never had before. His normal fear of humans was replaced by a desire to eat them. The strange noises proceeded the feeling; he tried to resist. He knew, that humans would come for him if he killed one. The noises began again in his brain; he saw a human across the canal near by. He felt himself moving towards it…hunting…

Crash

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It had been three full days since he had last slept.
Damn finals…and that thesis defense. One all-nighter in a row was bad enough, but two? Jesus. His teeth ached as he gulped another cup of the e-Quad’s stinking, bitter coffee.
Eyes…like baseballs of lean bacon. Crusty. Red.
The thesis defense was in two hours. Surely he would do a better job with a quick nap. He laid his head down on the cold carrel desk.
When he opened his eyes, the library windows were dark. How long had he been asleep?
Fuck this train wreck of a college career.

Dome

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Andrew Ian Dodge continues the creepy narrative from London with…

Mustafa stood at the edge of the Thames right next to the Dome, awaiting his fate. The building next to him was going to be a triumph for his master but never managed it. Mustafa arranged for 13 struts, until some Christians objected. He arranged to have Christian fundies take the place over to create the “right” cacophony; then secularists got upset. He arranged for it to be taken over by a casino interest and his master objected. It was meant to be a tribute and gate for Great Cthulhu; instead it was where Mustafa would be consumed. Religion eh?

The Infrared Baron

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“Can we improve upon the glorious The Red Baron?” growled Hitler to Göring,
Two weeks later, Göring’s scientists invented infra-red paint. Planes painted with it were totally invisible.
The next day, Hitler wanted a demonstration.
“A glorious day for the Reich,” he said. “I wish to see this invisible plane.”
A scientist whispered in Göring’s ear.
“What do you mean you can’t find it?” Göring hissed.
“Problem?” asked Hitler.
“The plane… just took off, fuhrer!” exclaimed Göring.
“Took off?” asked Hitler. “But I heard nothing.”
“Well…”
“Invisible and silent?” said Hitler. “Brilliant! The English will never know what hit them!”

Half Twist

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The commander wanted to give the enemy a chance to surrender before the bombing raid.
“We’re good people,” he said. “Can’t just kill them all.”
PsyOps argued over what the message should be.
The age-old “Surrender Now!” didn’t quite work with this kind of enemy.
The mathematics geek suggested putting an adhesive at one end and then giving instructions to half-twist the paper, then stick the ends together.
“It’s a Moebius Loop,” said the mathematician. “It only has one side.”
The commander pondered all of the options.
“Forget the warnings,” said the commander. “Just bomb the crap out of them.”

Say Uncle

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As usual, I’m in the middle of something when they come through.
Thursday, I was pressing a suit. Today, I was measuring Goldberg for a pair of pants. 38 waist, 30 inseam, dresses to the left, if you’re curious.
Hey, I don’t spend the whole day in here. But somebody has to be there to put up a good front, and I got picked. Maybe it’s because, in my other life, I really was a tailor.
But now, six hours a day, six days a week, I’m just the fucking doorman for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.

City Father

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Gart snapped a fresh magazine into his pulse rifle, hoping the soft “click” would not be picked up by the enemy sensors. He raised one eyebrow, sniffing the dank cellar air. It wasn’t getting any fresher in here, not with Jones’s decomposing torso only ten paces away.
It had been a good three days, at least until Jonesy bit it. They had made some real progress, pushing back the Jeffersonians. The city limits were secure – for now, anyway – but someone had to work recon, and it was Gart’s turn to draw short straw.
Sometimes it was hell to be Mayor.

Tome

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Andrew Ian Dodge continues to chronicle the goings-on with… The Sage!

As the Sage flicked through a tome that he had just received in the post he pondered whether or not it was genuine or a “clever fake”.
He read the text, in the language in which it appeared; trying not to read aloud or even think in coherent passages.
If his eyes were drawn to something for too long he would flick his eyes to a few pages hence. Various cursed tomes had taken many a naïve student in such ways; to dire ends naturally.
A dealer in London declared the book to be genuine; the Sage had his doubts.

Weekly Challenge #4 – Mother

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Welcome to the fourth Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
In honor of Mother’s Day, the topic is: mother.
You have until midnight on Friday the 12th to email me your story.
It would be preferred that you attach your own recording of the story to capture those nuance and inflection things, but I’ve always got the trained midget slave of dubious moral character available to record the story for you should push come to shove.
Once all the stories are in, I’ll assemble them into a single podcast collection for your enjoyment.
Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.

Time’s up!
Six stories submitted this week, plus the usual madness from the planet of insane bards, Planet Z. Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorite:

Who had the best story this week?
Tommy of Striving For Average
Erica of Gardenspot
Andrew Ian Dodge of of Dodgeblogium</
Elisson of blog d’Elisson</a
Kris of Gradualdazzle
Beck of Incite
The Mystery Man From Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Thanks to everyone for sending in their stories, and I look forward to what you’ve got to write (and say) next week.
The theme will be posted shortly.

Jolly

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Asparagam stood, staring off into space, a tear running down his chlorophyll-stained face.
It had been a hellish season. So many of his family cut off in the prime of their lives. Flayed. Stuffed into the brightly colored body bags, then trundled off into cryogenic storage.
But he could not mourn for them. That was…forbidden.
It was in the contract. The hellish clothing, perversely constructed of stinging nettles. The omnipresent shit-eating grin. It was all there in green and white. He was sworn to obey.
Just the same, he thought, can’t the Jolly Green Giant weep for his lost children?