Get Out Of Bed!

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For some people, it’s the alarm clock.
For others, it’s getting licked on the face by their dog or cat.
What gets me out of bed, well, that’s kind of a moot point.
I never get out of bed.
Ever since the drunk driver hit me, I’ve been here.
The tubes, wires, and nurses do everything for me.
And when they can’t, well, they put me under and cut more stuff off or stick in more tubes and wires.
The brown tube there, well, that pumps out my shit.
Probably to the kitchen, based on how this damn porridge tastes.

Beehive

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Flossie has a beehive hairdo.
It’s got actual bees in it, too.
Whenever she needs honey, she fogs her head with a smoker, waits a minute, and then pulls out a honeycomb to scrape.
Then she sticks it back in her hair and walks around until the smoke clears.
The bees wake up, and all is back to normal.
How does she wash her hair?
How does she sleep?
How does she have sex?
Yeah, try myself, but I’m not beating that hornet’s nest?
No. Really. There’s a hornet’s nest down there.
Not even with a beekeeper’s gimp suit, man.

Meat Pie

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“Sweeney Todd will give you a close shave, and Mrs. Lovett will make you into a wonderful meat pie.”
I read the poster twice.
And smiled.
So, I hobbled into the barber shop and happily shouted “I’m really to be murdered and turned into a meat pie!”
Todd looked me over, ran a hand across my chin, and smirked.
“You won’t do at all,” he said, and told me to leave.
Mrs. Lovett was just as dismissive.
“I just chop up what Sweeney sends me,” she said. “No special orders.”
In the end, she did sell me a meat pie.

Arrows

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All of the members of the tribe are expert archers.
Except one.
No matter how much he practices, he misses. Or he breaks the string on his bow.
He falls off of his horse a lot.
Don’t stand behind him when he’s got his tomahawk. His grip’s much too loose.
When asked to scalp an enemy, he merely takes a little bit off of the top and gives an excellent shave.
In fact, he’s got a business on the side. A barber shop in the white man’s settlement.
As for the gambling tables in back, well, that’ll never catch on.

Weekly Challenge #193 – Mucus and Eyes Like An Owl

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Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Ninety-Three, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
The topic this week was… was…. um…
It’s Mucus and Eyes Like An Owl!
The excellent theme music is by Guy David.
VOTING

Which were the best stories this week?
Steven
TJ
Zachmann
JRadimus
Justin
Anima
Norval Joe
Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

Steven

I go over the edge of the trench with the gas. It rolls in thick
liquid clouds.
The enemy is surprised. Both of us are hampered by gas masks. My
bayonet slices up, straps snap, and his mask falls away.
His eyes widen into owl eyes, pupils dilating from the poison. Snot
and blood pour from his mouth and nose. He clutches his chest and
gasps to a stop. His bowels release staining his trousers as he dies.
I breathe in through my mask’s charcoal filters. I smell nothing.
I raise my rifle and shoot a stranger twenty feet away.

TJ

They couldn’t fault him for tardiness. New Year’s Day he was at work before the foreman. His attire was that of a sharp-dressed man, still living the high life from the night before. True, he could’ve cleaned up a little. He came to suddenly, hungover, nose running, stubbly and red eyes staring like an owl’s. But his penmanship was perfect – or rather, that of his asshole friends, who left him passed out under seven-foot letters, “I QUIT!” He saw them when his boss kicked the nearby aerosol can at his head. “Happy New Year,” he grumped. “Now clean that up!”

Zachmann

I found a metal box, well more of a cylinder. I opened it up and there was a creature who was covered in mucus and had eyes like an owl. The creature sat up and said “May I use your shower or at least a hose? This mucus kept me alive in stasis but it is kind of gross and I would like to clean it off me.” After it used my shower, it told me it had questions for someone involved in the Clay Fenton incident and asked me if I knew where It could find The Space Turtle.

JRadimus

He was led, still shackled, from a bright anteroom into the darkened arena. The chanting of the crowd echoed off the walls; the combined din throbbed in Plaq’s ears. His eyes began adjusting to the dimness. His captors dimmed the lights for this death-match for the benefit of his owl- eyed opponent. For sadistic aliens, these creeps were annoyingly even-handed about their ritual sacrifices. At least they’d given him gauntlets so he could grip his foe’s mucus-covered body. “OK,” Plaq thought, “so I can grab it; if I don’t find some kind of weak-spot soon, I’m toast no matter what.”

Justin

I never expected to be the one to save the planet.
HootBoy saw the danger coming with his eyes like an owl. A meteor heading to Earth. Some characteristic hid it from radar.
The Arm Wrestler strong armed the meteorite into gently resting in South Africa. It started in Morocco, and finally stopped in Mozambique.
When the rock broke open and an attack squad of alien adolescent girls swarmed out, that’s when I had my moment to shine.
With my power to project mucus like water from a fire hose, I just grossed them out until they all fell unconscious.

Anima

Shivering violently, John weakly raises his head off the pillow.
His nose is running, a marathon apparently, by the accumulation of used tissues by the sofa. Mucus is crusted around his nares.
“Honey”, he rasps, “I think I’m getting sicker. Can you check my temp again?”
This is his umpteenth request in 90 minutes. Of course he’s got a fever. It’s the flu….
“In a few, babe, I need to check on the livestock…”
“Hurry…”
“Where do you think you’re gonna stick THAT?” he croaks , eyeing the horse thermometer, eyes wide as an owl’s.

Norval Joe

One night, I’m ready to close the shop, the door creaks open and someone enters. I don’t see anyone and wonder if I’m under a spell.
When I here a wet snuffling, I stand and look over the counter to see a small creature peering up at me. It’s big round eyes like an owls. It rubbed its nose with the back of a scrawny arm and smeared mucus around its face.
It held out its boney hand, and said, “these dice don’t work.”
“They don’t work,” I asked? “Maybe you rolled them wrong.”
Man, little kids shouldn’t play D&D.”

Planet Z

The planet looked like a gigantic glob of glowing green mucous.
We built a robot to send down.
It looked human, but had eyes like an owl and wide feet to keep it upright.
They sent it down via a remote-controlled dropship.
Five hours later, the planet changed from green to red.
The dropship was coming back up on its own.
Nobody was piloting it. And it wasn’t responding to remote helm signals.
We rose three kilometers from deployment and docking altitude.
The dropship stopped. And exploded.
The planet turned green again.
We tagged the planet “unfriendly” and left.

Turtles

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It’s okay to hate on turtles.
Turtles are smug, patient little reptiles that plod along stream beds and aquarium tanks, completely without worry or concern for the stresses of modern, civilized life.
Plus, there was the time that I went to court to protest a parking ticket.
The jury consisted of twelve turtles.
I protested, demanding a jury of my peers, but the judge waved me off.
“We’ve been having problems with people showing up for jury duty,” said the judge. “So now, we go to the pet store and grab turtles.”
I guess kittens are too expensive.
Damn turtles.

Piano on the bus

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When I was little, I played the cello.
It was too big for me to carry, so I switched to the violin.
When I got older, I tried to play the piano.
The piano is not very easy to carry, but that was not one of my selection criteria.
Besides, the piano has wheels. You can roll it places.
Just don’t try to take it on a city bus.
Sure, an upright piano can fit in the doors, but they won’t let you roll it on.
Even with the wheelchair ramp.
So that’s why I have this iPod.
Wanna listen?

Decade

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Unlike ordinary hourglasses, God’s is filled with cocaine.
It’s much brighter than sand, and significantly more expensive.
Especially when you consider the size of His hourglass, thirty feet tall.
Money means nothing to God. He has more money than Himself, you know.
He likes to sit in the bottom, letting the white pile rise around Him.
He snorts a bit, feels the buzz, and comes up with ideas.
“Let there be light!” He says, and passes out.
“Not again!” whines Gabriel.
The other angels sigh and struggle to turn the hourglass over.
(It’s so much easier than digging Him out.)

Serial Killer

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The IRS sent Billy Wallace a letter, warning him that he was due for an audit.
Billy shrugged, tore up the letter, and flushed it down the toilet.
The next day, the auditor was standing in front of his cell, looking in his briefcase.
“You say your profession is: Serial Killer, correct?” said the auditor.
“That’s correct,” said Billy.
“And how many people have you killed?”
“One.”
“Just one?” asked the auditor. “Don’t you need more than one to be classified as a serial killer?”
“I was just getting started.”
The auditor fined him for lying on his tax return.

Please, Sir, Buy My Trombone!

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To get you to buy a trombone, the Trombone Salesman will get you to try a trombone.
“I assure you: the reeds are clean,” he says, placing the trombone to your lips. “Now blow.”
Sure, you do not know how to play it, but one is at your lips. Your hands clutch the instrument, your fingers work the valves and slide.
“Now blow,” he repeats.
And so, you do.
The most horrible sound rushes out of the device.
Children scream.
Dogs howl.
Glass shatters.
The Trombone Salesman tries to take it back.
You refuse. “I’ll take it,” you say, grinning.