The Returning Snow

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I watch the weather reports.
The first snow will be coming.
I doesn’t tempt me, though. That first snow never lasts.
I’ll wait for when the snow builds up and doesn’t just melt away the next day.
There’s no sport in the bodies showing up so quickly. No challenge.
I’ll wait.
In the meantime, I’ll check the engine in the snowblower and check the oil.
I’ll wipe down the walls in the basement again.
Last year was a light year, certainly, but it doesn’t mean it’s any less messy down there.
It’s the least I can do for my guests.

Dunk

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Ever since the Chicago Bears dumped a Gatorade jug over Mike Ditka’s head to celebrate their first championship since 1963, it’s been a tradition in football to upend your sports performance drink over your coach to celebrate a victory.
Every so often, a joker will fill the jug with ice so it’s a really cold shower for the winning coach.
It was a cold game in Green Bay that brought on a new twist: a trainer had provided an extra jug of hot chicken soup to warm players during the bone-chilling subzero chill.
The coach was not screaming in joy.

Weekly Challenge #181 – Forty

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Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Eighty-One, 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 Forty!
The excellent theme music is by Guy David.
VOTING

Which were the best stories this week?
Josh
Eva
Cary
ChestMutt
Stephen
Anima
John W.
Brad
Almo
Guy David
Basrai
Lynda
Justin
Norval Joe
Ishtar 1
Ishtar 2
TJ
JRaqdimus
Dedric
Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

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


Josh

Joey plunged the hotdog into the water and watched it expand before pulling it out and cramming it into his already full mouth.
Chewing furiously he imagined himself a viking destroying his enemy, piercing through soggy armor and rubbery flesh with spear-like incisors. He fought only to kill. To send his opponent like its twenty-seven brethren before it, to the bowels of hell.
Joey grabbed the cup and pulled deep, not minding the soggy chunks of bread collecting on his lips before slamming it back down. He braced himself for the melee of approaching challengers .
Only forty more to go.

Eva Moon

Amir stifled a groan of discomfort and shifted his aching bones as much as he could in the cramped quarters, but it provided little relief. How long must I wait? He settled his shoulders against the rough ceramic and occupied his mind with thoughts of how he would spend his share of the loot. Even split forty ways with the other thieves, it would still be enough to make a comfortable life for a frugal man.
At last he heard the shuffle of bare feet outside his hiding place and the sound of the clay lid above his head being slid aside.
The last thing he knew was the smell of hot oil.

Cary

Birthday candles blazing, Pintu leaned over the cake with his ears pinned back, to prevent them from singeing. As he took a deep breath grandpa shouted out “how many is that now?!” Pintu held the captive air. From the opposite side of the room Grandma returned even louder “5”! Pintu still waiting, his little cheeks bulging. Grandpa responded “If he’s 5 then I’m forty!” “Death plus forty!” Grandma shouted over the huddled crowd. “You would know!” yelled back Grandpa. Pintu still hovering over the flaming cake, only his eyes following the volleys. His cheeks turning a patient shade of blue.

ChestMutt

The night was dark and spooky as the kids walked through the woods. All they wanted was a silly scare, but now, in the forty degree weather, all they wanted was home. The fall festival was a hit for them, and they gathered as much candy and food as possible. The sugar rush they were now on made them easily convinced to go through the thick trees in search for the ghostly creature that hid among them. Somewhere, a tree branch snapped, sending them into a sudden panic as they turned and ran the ten feet out into the clearing.

Stephen

In this world, lawyers are real predators. Feral copyright attorneys
hunt the streets. Outside, a patent infringer’s gunship ravages a
corporate skyscraper. The building rumbles, preparing to launch into
low orbit.
I shake my head. The scene fades as I toss the paper – my fortieth
attempt at a believable world – into the wastebin.
I write again, and the world fills in around me. Giant insects buzz,
a velociraptor screeches, and I quickly throw that paper aside.
I pick up my pen again. This time, I write you. Your world, your
cities, your people.
I’m not sure if I like it.

Anima

“If you’d paid Big Louie on time, I wouldn’t have to come visit. Why would a sweet old granny like to bet that kind of money on the fights anyway? You just don’t look the type. What’s that? Hold on, I’m gonna pull of the tape now…”
“It’s not me you want, you goon! I’m Joan Smith, not John Smith!”
“You aren’t John Smith, Apartment 4D?”
“No! he’s in 4T!”
“Eh. Benny, let go the old lady… and remind me to get a new cel phone in the morning, you can’t understand a thing anybody says on this…”

John W.

Red and blue lights flashed behind me. I pulled over, rolled down my
window and placed my hands on the steering wheel.
When the officer approached I could see my reflection in his mirrored
sunglasses.
He spoke in a calm yet firm tone, “Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?”
I didn’t answer. I knew why.
“Sir, you were doing 87 mph in a 40 mph zone,” he said.
Still I did not answer.
He looked in the back seat and said to me, “Follow me, sir.”
We raced off together to the hospital, my wife in labor.

Brad

Once upon a time there lived a bewitched princess that had been asleep for 40 years. Her queenly mother prayed for a hero to come and break the spell. Her mother’s prayers were answered when a valiant 40 year old prince with gold mail and super fast horse fought his way past dragons and swamp monsters and stuff like that to get to her and wake her with a kiss. But then he realized that she was 18 when she fell asleep and that would make her 58 so he passed and married a 22 year old duchess from Notlob.

Almo

Peter slipped on the wet, muddy floor, then slipped heavily on something else. “Shit!” he said, an interjection and a description. He cleaned himself up, cursed the cow, and began mucking out the pen. He looked uncertainly at the hay, which would mildew if they couldn’t figure out a way to dry it out soon.
He caught a movement out of the corner his eye. His father.
Peter’s frustration boiled over.
“Look,” he yelled at Noah. “It’s been 39 days of the same thing!”
Peter glanced at the cow. “If this rain lasts forty days, It’s burger time, baby!”

Guy David

Forty butterflies are dancing on my grave. Forty red flowers are arranged in a circle on the cold stone. Forty paid maidens are weeping for me. I scream “I’m alive, I’m still alive, let me out,” but no one hears. The earth tastes sweet in my mouth. I sob. I’ve been here for forty thousand years. Still there’s no sign of me becoming hungry or tired, forever doomed under a spell to stay alive in my grave, counting eternity. The walls of my grave disintegrated long ago. I’m now part of the soil. I’ll stay here forever. It’s my destiny.

Basrai

She asked, with her broken English: “Today, for tea, bring beef home.”
“Beef, for tea?”
She smiled broadly: “For tea, today.”
“You’re not kidding.” I gasped.
“For tea. You don’t know?”
I shook my head. That was the price for entering into a crossed-culture marriage. Your digestive system would, sooner or later, be compromised by strange customs. I imagined the slice of beef floating darkly in the sweet, aromatic Indian tea. She called it tchai.
“I am not drinking tea with beef, especially on my husband’s fortieth birthday. Please.”
“Forty. Your husband forty. I cook good. Not beef with tea.”

Lynda

Come one, come all, gather ’round and see the clockwork kid, the wonder of the modern age! Built by robots on a faraway island forty years ago, a group of opportunistic pirates couldn’t let a good thing go to waste so they brought him here, to entertain you! Wind him up and he’ll weave you a unique tale guaranteed to blow your mind!
You’ll be dazzled by his wit! You’ll marvel as he interacts with the fiercest of jungle cats! You’ll drool over his delicious bread!
Run, don’t walk! Don’t even wait for the bus! Witness the magnificent clockwork kid!

Justin

The weary dung beetle pushed upwards. Rail fell, it pushed. Snow covered the ground, onward to pushed. Food was scarce, yet it pushed upwards still. Jobs came and went, hurricanes and sickness, but still, the dung beetle pushed up, higher and higher up the hill. Many years passed, as did friends and family. How long will can the beetle go on? Wait, there, is that the top of the hill? Just a little bit further now. Forty years the beetle toiled, pushing the turd uphill and now, with a final heave, the crap started going downhill. Happy birthday Laurence Simon.

Norval Joe

“Ok, you were right about the rain, only forty days and nights and we’re afloat. So maybe God is talking to you. But what’s with the sheep? You bring two of each of the other animals, why so many damn sheep? And why do we need to keep them in our bedroom? I know, I know, the whole arc is crowded and they did made good pillows at first, but there’s sheep crap everywhere. I’m not putting up with sheep for another day, let alone forty. You better do something about them or you and the sheep are going overboard.”

Ishtar 1

40 feet till I can be free.
My body can feel it, muscles loosening,
The skin slightly sweating in anticipation,
a smile on my lips.
Why am I reacting like this? It’s Friday afternoon.
The end of the work week. All I can think about is
the Freedom of what I am about to do.
20 feet till I can be free.
My Coworkers tell me goodbye, little do they know
it will be. They try to stop me, ask questions. Reports,
forms, evaluations, baaaah. Can’t they see it all means
nothing?

Ishtar 2

Eyes follow my movements, no one can figure out why I am so happy.
I’m standing in the courtyard at work, surrounded by my coworkers.
Gods they think I’m flipping out.
I smile at them and ask them to wait a moment. I can explain everything.
I slowly unbutton my blouse; light is shining from my eyes.
I can feel the skin of my back ripping away. The crowd goes silent.
In that instant, I feel the ultimate freedom. I’m hovering 10 feet up.
My body has changed, fire on my skin, dragon wings, oh the freedom of flight.

TJ

It’s been 40 years, so go out! Celebrate! Even if you spend the entire day inside, however, the very rotation of the planet carries you about 17,600 miles. This is about 6.4 million miles in a year and nearly 257 million miles in 40 years.
Forty trips around the sun have net you an additional tour of some 23.5 billion miles through the solar system. In that time, the sun has traveled approximately 173 quadrillion miles around the galaxy — at whatever endlessly relative speed that’s moving through the universe.
So seriously, if it’s your 40th birthday? Relax. You’ve earned it.

JRadimus

“” Forty
“Today’s forecast calls for unseasonably wintry weather, with a chance of freezing rain before sunrise and after sunset, mostly cloudy all day, with a high of 40.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”

“Ma’am, Do you know how fast you were going?”
“No.”
“You were doing 40 in a 20. I can’t ignore that.”
“Yes, Officer…I’m sorry.”
“I’m still gonna write the ticket, ma’am.”
She sighed.

“That was some cut. How’d it happen?”
“I dropped a vase and missed; I cut my hand and foot on the glass.”
“Well, you’ll be fine, now. Forty stitches, though.”
“Thanks.”
Some birthday. Guess which one? “”

Dedric

Each day the programmer goes for a walk around a pond to relax. He sees a man playing a flute. It echoes over the water and fills his ears with musical joy. A gathering of large fish are often seen swimming close to the man playing the flute. Ideas fill his head about a fairy from the woods that turned his wife into a fish, and that he plays only to lure his lost love back to him. It is a silly story without an end or a purpose. After forty minutes, the programmer returns to a life of stress.

Planet Z

The last thing Michael remembered was a warning to drink plenty of fluids and rest.
He woke up feeling great… forty years later.
He screamed.
“Your chart says you drank an herbal remedy,” said a face on a floating monitor. White nurse-robots floated around it, going in and out of Michael’s vision.
Michael tried to remember.
His roommate was reading a thick leatherbound book he said once belonged to his great-grandmother.
“Cures everything,” he had said.
“Where is that asshole?” said Michael to the screen.
He heard a yawn from the next bed over.
And a scream.

Cloak And Dagger

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All she wore was a cloak and a dagger.
And nothing else.
The CIA Recruiting Officer shook his head and pointed at the door.
“What’s wrong?” the rejected candidate said with a whine.
“It’s not literally cloak-and-dagger,” said the officer. “It’s just a saying.”
“Fine,” she said. She put down the dagger and took off the cloak. “What kind of job can I get with this?”
The officer checked a telephone directory and dialed.
After a few minutes, he smiled and unfolded a map.
“The White House is marked with a red X,” he said. “Ask for Bill. Good luck.”

The Butterfly

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I told Lucy not to get a tattoo, but she did.
It’s a pink butterfly on her ankle.
Sometimes, it is on her right ankle. Other times, her left.
I’ve watched her sleep and the butterfly flapping around her bedroom.
When she wakes up, it lands and melts into her skin.
Today, it’s on her wrist.
“I’m thinking about getting another,” she says.
I told her not to, but she did.
Another butterfly. Blue this time.
They fly together at night, circling.
I rub my arm, where the flaming skull once was.
Sure, laser-removal surgery worked.
But it still burns.

Victory Square

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No more bombers.
Silence.
We walk to the center of town, stepping over bodies and fallen streetlamps.
Collapsed buildings line the path.
More bodies in the park, trees with shattered leaves.
“Victory Square” says a monument, half of a horse.
Where is the rest of it? Where is the rider?
“Centaur,” says my guide. “Nikos The Wise.”
He tries to tell me the story of the centaur, but it’s just gibberish.
We’ve come across no other survivors.
So I pull out my pistol, shoot him, and then call headquarters on my radio.
“Total victory,” I say. “Bring in the transports.”

The Lighter

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Down in the dungeon, the witch stirs up a boiling cauldron full of jokes
“We stir to keep the lighter jokes from floating to the top and staying there,” says Hildegard the Wicked. “Only when the jokes are finished do we skim them from the top.”
I’ve asked her what she puts in the pot to make the jokes, but she never reveals her secret.
“You don’t want to know,” she says. “Just drink the potions I give you and be happy with it.”
Sure, I’ll drink it, but I won’t be happy with it.
Funny, yes. But not happy.

Poetry and Coffee

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She asks me which I would rather have: good poetry and bad coffee, or bad poetry and good coffee.
“Why not good poetry and good coffee?” I ask. “Can’t you do both?”
It turns out, not only is she the waitress but she’s also a poet. “I don’t have time for both,” she says. “I can either concentrate on the coffee or write really good poetry.”
“Coffee,” I say.
“But this coffee will last only an hour or so,” she says. “My poetry will last for generations, long after I’m dead.”
I shrug. “I guess they won’t tip you either.”

Under Observation

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We watch everything you do.
We listen to everything you say.
We read everything you write.
We know everywhere you go.
And after all this time, we’ve come to the simple conclusion that you’re the most boring person on Earth.
You don’t do anything interesting at all. We haven’t filed a single report on you in all the time you’ve been under observation.
You’re an easy assignment. Boring, but easy.
So we’re just going to ignore the fact that you’re dead and just keep filing the same reports over and over.
You won’t mind.
Because you’re dead.
That’s… our secret.

Weekly Challenge #180 – Wings

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Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Eighty, 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 Wings!
The excellent theme music is by Guy David.
VOTING

Which were the best stories this week?
Steven
Guy
Cary
Lynda
Josh
Terry
Norval Joe
Anima
TJ
Justin
JRadimus
Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com


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


Steven

“We don’t have penguins,” she IM’d. Her avatar’s tail twitched.
He panned his cam over the alife chickens and turtles covering their
parcel. The virtual eggs filled his inventory.
“The people next to us have penguins,” she continued. “And scripted
flexiwings.”
He rezzed his own wings. “I got these from Yadni’s…”
“I don’t want some freebie crap,” she said, and logged off.
He made his wings stretch and flap. They’d been free,
but with full permissions. With them, he could do anything.
The neighbors watched the wings carry him over their chickens,
turtles, and penguins, heading east, never to return.

Guy David

Dragon soup is our specialty. Trolls and Orcs love them. They come all the way from Orgrimmar to sample out cuisine. I can tell you, some good fights are fought over the seasoning of dragon wings. Our place is a lively establishment. Not a dull moment. You should come around, try our bat wings. You are going to love it. Those wings are spicy. Just take the Darkriver road to the northern tower. You can’t miss it. While you’re at it, could you bring me some vampire blood on the way? It would be great for our Night Elf Gumbo.

Cary

“Hey”
“Hey”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I was wondering what those things on your side are.”
“What things? Oh! Not really sure, never noticed them before.”
“Well they look kind of cool. What do they do?”
“Hmmm. Good question. Not really sure, but they are snazzy, aren’t they.”
“Yea. Where do I get some, you reckon?”
“Hey! Where are you going?”
“Seems like down. Well it was nice talking to you. If you find out where I can get a pair of those at, let me know,” as he disappears into a puff of dust.

Lynda

Red Bulls are so good, I drank a hundred of them and I didn’t get wings, but I cleaned my gutters and I didn’t even need a ladder to get to the roof, I just jumped! Then I helped change a tire by totally ripping off the tire, and then I threw the tire, and the tire flew all the way across town to the dump and killed a hobo, but I don’t feel bad about that–I can’t feel anything but pure unadulterated caffeine rushing through my veins, busting up my brain and I think I’m having a heartattack!

Josh

The day i tried to fly, was the day i met God.
“Poor creature,” he said, “did I not give thee sense to know thou art not a winged bird?”
i stared into indescribable eyes and saw everything – comprehending nothing.
“My child, did I not give thee legs to carry thyself across solid earth?”
i marveled at bottomless robes, praying to see what was beyond.
“I am Creator of the Universe, Life, Knowledge. Yet thou art compelled, dissatisfied by what I know not. What could exist that I would not bestow unto thee?
“Lord,” i said “…curiosity.”

Terry

Orville climbed the hill looking for his brother, Wilbur, after leaving their Buffalo bicycle shop.
He was rather excited to see the new wing design they had been perfecting for the past six months.
Today was going to be the grand introduction and they had invited all of their friends and neighbors.
Seeing Wilbur standing in front of a large crown of people, he headed toward him.
As he walked up to Wilbur he asked, “Are the wings ready?”
“Just about” answered Wilbur, “All that’s left is to toss them in the hot sauce and put them in a bowl”

Norval Joe

Steel cables ran side by side, up the eastern slope of Half Dome; poles maintained them at waist level. Jeff stood at the bottom, paralized by fear, and peered up. The other boys were out of site, probably already on top.
They had hiked through the night to watch the sunrise from the top.
“If I had wings, I could fly up there,” he said to the ground.
He grasped the cable with both sweaty hands, placed shaking feet against the granite and began to climb.
As the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, Jeff’s shadow stretched across the summit.

Anima

Eduardo sat in the garden enjoying the last of the September sun. Spring in Rio was simply wonderful! The flowers were starting to bloom – the orchids and the amaryllis, the begonias and hibiscus, the color riot of red and orange and purple were almost too much for the senses.
Silently, a butterfly landed on his knee. Eduardo was able to transfer it to his forefinger, where the spindly insect clung tenaciously. It slowly opened and closed its powder-worn and tattered wings.
“Where do you come from, beautiful thing? Far away, no?”
Meanwhile, in Houston, a tornado was brewing.

TJ

Elmer Popplewood was mesmerized. For the first time, there in the dark, watching “Up,” he saw so clearly what those upgrades to his furnace and the oversized windmill installations to his Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired cantilevered roof extensions had been leading to all along. He’d been creating a flying house!
Some extensive termite activity later he connected the treadmill to the decorative rooftop rotors, and he hit the oil painting of a big red button in his living room that said “LAUNCH!”
At first, nothing happened.
Oh, of course.
He added the liquid hydrogen to the furnace.
And … he flew!

Justin

Gahamut and Raul, demon and angel, fought on a plateau. Viciously struck, Raul fell off the edge. He did not yet have wings.
Robert looked into his Arby’s bag and realized no one had asked if he wanted sauce. Exiting, he glanced at the ‘good service’ bell, leaving it unrung.
Raul’s shoulder blades tingled, but then nothing.
Rick almost rang, but an alert employee said hello first.
The ground grinned at Raul.
Jeremy looked at the annoying alarm. It would ring any second, if he could just…
Wings burst from Raul’s back, his fingertips slid across dirt, then he soared.

JRadimus

The pain was indescribably excruciating. She passed out at least four times during the first seven-hour session, but lost count after that. By the end, she thought she was going to die, but she didn’t. This wasn’t Tabitha’s first tattoo by any stretch, but it was her first enchanted tattoo, and thus, her most complex, expensive and painful, one by far. After thirteen tortuous sessions, it was done. Full-sized angel wings sprawled across her back. And when the moonlight kissed the ink, all the pain was forgotten as she flexed her feathery new outgrowths and took flight.

Planet Z

Welcome to Three Buckets Icehouse.
There’s only one thing on the menu: Bucket of beer and a bucket of wings.
I know, that’s only two buckets.
We used to give out a third bucket for throwing up in, but we eventually figured out what was wrong with the wing recipe that was making everyone sick after a couple of em.
Now, by the time you feel sick, you’re either on your last beer or last wing.
“Where’s the third bucket?” you ask.
The bartender’s pointin’ to the bucket that has TIPS written on it.
Don’t throw up in it.