Weekly Challenge #742 – Cleave

Sock cat

LIZZIE

The impressive statue filled the room of the museum. It held an ax and a noose, and also a plate of fruit.
Strange combination, he thought.
“Whatever you do, don’t touch it,” said the security guard, walking away.
He touched the plate, of course. Nothing happened. The noose. Nothing. The ax. Still nothing.
He shrugged.
Suddenly, something hit him. He got snatched back by the neck and was gone when his back got slashed.
Before the cameras, the director promised he would find the culprits.
The security guard hid the noose and the ax away, and calmly enjoyed his apple.

RICHARD

Contract

I like ambiguous words. You know the sort: when you can use the same word to mean completely opposite things, like the word ‘fast’…

When our marriage commenced, our relationship was rock solid, and we felt it would hold fast forever, but now we’re fast approaching the end.

The wife tells me, that no matter what, we’re bound by our vows, and therein lies my getout clause.

You see, I insisted on writing them myself, and when I said we would ‘cleave, together’, I insisted on the comma between them.

That way, I have a contractual obligation to divorce her.

SERENDIPIDY

It’s one of my favourite words – cleave.

Unlike stab, chop, cut, carve and slice it conveys a real sense of intent – a premise of permanency, of finality and complete conviction.

You can’t cleave something half-heartedly and there’s an element of surgical precision too: Cleaving is undertaken with gravitas and commitment, it’s not haphazard, incidental or impulsive.

And, for all those reasons, cleaving is far too good for you.

For you, my friend, it’s the choppy, stabby, slashy, frantic cut and thrust of frenzied abandonment. The messy kind that causes pain and intense suffering.

I’ll save the cleaver for someone better.

TURA

Cleave
———
Three eminent masters of their respective crafts contended to see which was the greatest.

Master Ding the butcher said, “My blows with the cleaver are so sure, that in nineteen years not once have I needed to resharpen it”

Master Qing the carpenter said, “In nineteen years, I have never needed more than a single blow to drive home a nail.”

Master Bing the bureaucrat said, “In nineteen years, I have denied every petition presented to me.”

The other two bowed. The next day, Master Bing’s body was found expertly dismembered, the pieces nailed to the gateposts of his house.

NORVAL JOE

When his mother left, Billbert walked over to his father and looked at the computer screen. “Who exactly is headed our way?”
His father pointed to three blobs on the monitor. “These are super villains. I don’t know who these two are, but this big red one is named Atomic Fission.”
Linoliamanda joined Billbert and his father. “What are his superpowers?”
“Her, superpowers,” Mr. Wienerheimer said. “She divides things, like separating the members of our team. Making it possible to eliminate them one by one.”
Billbert gulped. “Is mom in danger?”
His father shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope not.”

TOM

Chop-Chop

“Mama?” “What Cleave?” “Why did you name me Cleave? Timmy says it’s a stupid name.” “Timmy is a dick, and everyone in this direct DNA pool is a sub-primate.” “No, mama, I know Timmy is a knuckle dragging moron. I need to weaponize my name to battle with the god’s less fortunate, thus seeking the almighty’s reward. Well actually I just want to fuck will them.” “Well it happened a long time ago in Italy. Your Great Grandfather, not one to suffer idiots, buried a butcher’s knife it a customer’s head. Go now my little cleaver, and do likewise. Chop-chop.”

PLANET Z

The annual Best Cleavage Contest was coming up.
Melanie picked out her best low-cut blouse and bra and checked herself in the mirror.
“All natural, no artificial fillers,” she told herself.
Unlike some of the so-called competition.
It took thousands of dollars of surgery to get close to Melanie’s league.
There was no way they’d make top shelf.
So, they took a different approach.
Up there on the stage, Melanie looked up and down the row of flat-chested women.
Who pulled off their skirts and turned around.
Perfect ass-cleavage, every one of them.
Defeated, Melanie felt like a total… fool.

Glued to the television

I remember my mother talking about the Kennedy assassinations and the Moon landing.
She said they were all glued to the television.
Which I found strange, because she was always telling me not to sit so close to the television.
“Why can’t we get a bigger television?” I’d ask. “That way, I don’t have to sit as close to it.”
Now, I’ve got a big flat-panel television up on a stand.
Every now and then, a cat jumps up on the stand.
The cat isn’t exactly glued to the television, but I do hear occasional static crackle on their fur.

Empty Revenge

Does revenge bring closure?
It wasn’t hard to face her killer.
He was in the morgue.
On the table next to my pregnant fiancee.
It was a suicide bombing, after all.
I yelled. I screamed.
Beating his corpse with a folding chair.
But I still felt the rage.
When we found the bombmaker and the planner, I thought about making them eat each other’s fingers.
Instead, we shackled them to concrete blocks, flew them three miles out over the sea.
They fell, begging and screaming.
Let them drown in my tears.
But I felt nothing, and I haven’t cried since.

Sweet and Sour

I don’t like sweet and sour chicken.
Chicken should be sweet or sour. Not both.
I don’t want indecisive chicken.
I don’t want passive-aggressive or bipolar chicken.
The last thing I need is erratic chicken on my plate, on my fork.
In my mouth, chewing. Chewing.
If I’m eating sweet chicken and it turns sour, I’m going to spit it out.
If I’m eating sour chicken and it turns sweet, I’m going to spit it out.
So, in the end, I don’t eat chicken.
I eat beef. I always eat beef.
Sweet and sour beef is just fine by me,

Bashar Assad

The blood of hundreds of thousands on his hands, the dictator of Syria listened to the threats and shrugged.
Then, one day, the missiles came, striking his chemical weapons factory.
The dictator assumed he’d be next, and he wore a vest with babies duct-taped to it.
That way, if he were attacked, his attackers would be condemned for killing babies, too.
But the babies constantly screamed and pissed and shat and were generally horrible.
The dictator had them killed.
They were much quieter, but they began to stink.
Even worse than the CNN reporters who volunteered as his human shields.

Ram Dass

The old master sat in his wheelchair, out on the deck, watching the sun set over the ocean.
Slowly thumbing through his bamboo prayer beads with his good hand, the other, limp by his side.
Incense and flowers, white robes and long shadows, we sat and watched him dying.
“We are all dying,” said the master. “You. Me. Everyone.”
We pondered his words in the context of a finite lifespan on a cosmic scale.
When we should have pondered them literally.
The deck collapsed into the ocean.
The one thing we never learned from the master was how to swim.

The Twelve

After the ruckus died down, Joseph and Nicodemus grabbed the body and stuffed it behind a rock.
Several Roman soldiers told the guys to beat it.
The apostles gathered by a tree to restrategize.
“He’s coming back, right?” said Bartholomew. “Right?”
“He better,” said John. “Otherwise, I’m stuck with his bills.”
“How about we call today Good Friday?” said Matthias. “He did for all our sins. That’s good, right?”
“Well, it was a good Friday for Barabbas,” mumbled Peter.
They had nothing to do until Sunday.
So, they had a picnic and threw a ball around.
Thomas played the bongos.

Weekly Challenge #741 – PICK TWO mass, trade, headache, pick me, It’s not you it’s me

Laundry cat

LIZZIE

The entrance to the ship was locked because the entrance ramp got stuck.
“We’re in the 25th century, the most modern, developed world anyone has ever experienced, and the ramp is stuck,” he mumbled.
He tried everything to fix it.
He was so focused, the speakers startled him when they roared “Time Travel Tomorrow.”
“Right, but the ramp is stuck… Stuck.”
“We’re looking for volunteers.”
“Stuck. But… OK, pick me!”
The command center received his telepathic message.
The next day, he was in the 21st century. He landed right in the middle of the famous 2020 pandemic. Everything was… stuck.

RICHARD

Headache

“Not tonight, I’ve got headache”, she said.

Another headache! Just like the last time, and the time before that, for as long as I cared to remember.

We’d had the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ talk, of course, several times; and to be fair, you’re absolutely right – it’s you! You and that guy you’ve been seeing behind my back, if we want to be strictly accurate.

Well, tonight was the last straw, I’ve finally had enough.

I reached under the pillow and fished out my revolver.

I’ll show you a real headache’, I thought, holding the muzzle to her temple.

SERENDIPIDY

You can’t say you weren’t warned!

They told you I was bad news, even I warned you that I came with emotional baggage – a mass of problems, hang ups and some things that you’d rather not know.

But, you wouldn’t listen; and here we are now at a point of no return. Well, you at least, won’t be returning.

It’s no good staring at me with those puppy dog eyes, and pleading for your miserable life. It won’t make any difference.

You could have chosen any other girl, a good, normal, sane girl… But no, you had to pick me!

NORVAL JOE

Mr. Wienerheimer pointed to the computer screen. “They’re incoming, right here. They should be here in less than an hour.”
Billbert’s mother shook her head. “I’d better go into the office. They’ll need my help. What a headache.”
Billbert’s dad laughed. “I’d trade places with you, Pooky. But you’re the one with the superpowers.”
Billbert squirmed on the couch. “But Mom. Why do they need you to come in? Your superpower is efficiency.”
His mother pulled on a jacket. “It’s an area affect power. Just like Linoliamanda flies with you, people around me become more efficient. Their powers become stronger.”

TOM

Pick Me. Pick Me. No No Me. Please ME ME ME. Hard choice. The circling vice behind my ears was a candidate. Sinus pain driving up my nose a nine penny nail was getting fair reflection. The optic nightmare was pretty much an 11 out of 10. The migraine auras while very four of July colorful was causing projectile tears. Hands down the steel bear-trap ripping through my back and shoulders was the premier deluxe of headaches. Today sadly was trifecta of pain. A win show place of torture. If I had a pencil I’d drive it through my skull.

PLANET Z

Sandy went to Sunday Mass over a YouTube live stream.
She used to watch it through TV, but YouTube made it feel more real.
Crackers and a bottle of wine on the desk.
She got out of her chair and knelt while the priest on the screen waved his hand and recited a blessing.
Then ,she put the cracker on her tongue, and washed it down with a sip of wine.
And then another. And another.
Sandy finished the bottle of wine and passed out on the floor.
Youtube played the next video: a series of cats doing silly things.

Disgraceland

Elvis Presley bought his Graceland.
It was the last house he ever needed.
And across the street, Vernon McTavish bought Disgraceland.
Vernon built a tower, taller than Graceland’s fences, to spy on Elvis.
He took photos and made films and reported Elvis’ movements.
Those of Elvis’ family, too.
And he’d sell them to the press.
When Elvis went overseas, he made a deal with Vernon.
Watch over his family for him.
So, Vernon did.
Up to the day that Elvis’ mother died.
Vernon had pictures of that.
When Elvis came back, he burned Vernon’s tower down.
With Vernon in it.

Farmer Joe

Nobody knows what Farmer Joe grows.
Some say it’s carrots. Others say it’s potatoes.
And for a while, I thought he grows corn, but what do I know?
He’s got a wall around his farm, with electrified barbed wire on top of it.
Satellite photography on Google Maps just shows a blur.
Trucks go in with fertilizer and machinery, and trucks come out loaded with… well… we don’t know.
He doesn’t even hire migrant workers to harvest whatever he grows in there.
Maybe he uses robots. Harvesting robots.
They don’t talk like people do.
“Rumors,” says Joe. “I grow rumors.”