Tree Crime

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I wanted to arrest that Maple Tree. I really did.
Instead, we took it Downtown for questioning.
Trees aren’t so tough when you get them away from other trees.
Still, it’s hard to pick a tree out of a lineup.
We hadn’t gotten to that point yet, though. The tree’s lawyer showed up, asks if his client has been charged with anything.
No, we say, but we just want a few questions answered.
Lawyer says the interview is over, we can’t charge him with anything, so it’s back to the forest.
I really hate the legal system sometimes, you know?

Weekly Challenge #79 – Barbecue

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Welcome to the seventy-ninth Weekly Challenge, 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 selected by Tom.
It’s Barbecue
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
VOTING
Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

Which stories were the best from Weekly Challenge #79
Paul
Tom from Footnote Podcast
Guy David of The Sixteenth
Houston Keys from Tater Tots For The Masses
Laieanna from HodgePodge Point
Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com


WE GOTS PRIZES:
I will be sending the winner a prize… it’s refrigerator magnets for the podcast. Massive amounts of fridge magnets were mailed out in the past week… watch your mail, and let me know if I’ve missed you.
It is your voting that determines who wins. So listen, vote, and tune in next week to find out who won!

PAUL

The sound of the word makes my mouth water.
Smokey, greasy ribs, with the crusty burnt edges, brisket what falls apart when you look at it.
Spicy sausages so good they’re obscene.
A chunk of cheese.
Tearful slices of onion.
Wedges of pickles.
And Styrofoam bowls of BBQ beans, all washed down with a ice cold beer.
Sure, I know people what prefer BBQ Chicken.
I know a gal what orders BBQ Turkey.
But me? I am a purest.
I only eat the real stuff, slabs of meat smoked for hours, what drips in fat.
Except on Saturday. On Saturday, I’m vegetarian.

TOM

St Peter fired up the Weber outside the gates
Tennessee hickory gently glowing
pulled pork sizzled
bathed in Carolina ruby sauce.
“Nice barbecue” said Burroughs.
“What happened?” inquired Peter.
“A loaded banana” returned Burroughs.
As the hickory crackled a
melody rolled across the clouds.
“Rossini,” mused Peter.
“The Lone Ranger,” intoned Bill.
They both spun around yelling
“WILLIAM TELL!”
“Hi boys don’t forget to cook that slowly,” said
Joan Vollemer a Smith and Wesson pointed at Burroughs.
Her aim was no better than Bill’s
St Peter fell face first into the Weber.
“Hey Joan …” BLAM
Bill toppled over Peter.

HOUSTON KEYS

The things that had once been Frank and Jim waited. Even as zombies
they faced the question of, “What’s for dinner?”
A yuppie ran past. Frank looked at Jim. Jim tried to say white meat
was too dry, but all that came out was a garbled snarl.
A Chinese guy ran past but Frank didn’t bother, they would be hungry
again in an hour.
The Italian guy running past caused Jim to perk up but Frank hit him
on the arm. Italian food gave him gas.
Suddenly, Laurence Simon ran by. Frank and Jim looked at each other…
“Mazel Tov!”

LAIEANNA

“Dear chef,” said Ivan to the giant, “stew is very appetizing, but with a right blend of ingredients, a barbecue would make you eat like the king. I happen to have a mix in my bag. Let me lather myself in it’s delight. If I’m to be eaten, I wish to be eaten right.”
Compliant, the giant lifted Ivan, who went straight to work stripping and rubbing till he was bright red and slick. Grabbing and slipping, the giant gathered nothing but the tasty sauce. With sticky fingers, he couldn’t resist sitting and licking them while Immortal Ivan got away.

PLANET Z
“Come and get it!!”
“Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“Why do we grill with mesquite?”
“Son, it’s something that goes back… way back to the days of the Bible.”
“Wow.”
“In fact, that burning bush that spoke to Moses… it was a mesquite bush.”
“Really?”
“After Moses got done talking to it and getting the ten commandments, the Bush was still burning, so Moses leaned those stone tablets together, gathered up some branches, made a smokeshack out of ’em, and made himself some mesquite camel jerky.”
“Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“You’re so full of shit.”

Dragonhunters

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A team of dragonhunters came to town the other day.
They’d heard that we held a lottery every year to choose a human sacrifice for the dragon that lives in the forest.
Truth is, we do it to figure out who gets stuck giving the dragon his annual scrubdown.
If you think the dragon stinks, you should smell the soap we use. Only a wizard can understand how the two produce “clean dragon” instead of “deadly, toxic stench.”
We’ll let the dragon finish these clowns off.
I just hope I don’t get stuck washing their corpses out of his scales.

Book By Its Cover

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My master says not to judge a book by its cover, but it doesn’t take an archmage to realize that his spellbook’s a pretty nasty bit of business.
At first glance, you notice the silver needles along the binding dripping with poison while the dragonhide cover trails wisps of smoke, right?
But how many people would notice the howling bog-wraiths trapped as the bar code on the back?
I mean, who puts bar codes on the back of a spellbook? It’s not you’re going to want to list it on Amazon with an ISBN, right?
Archmages can be weird sometimes.

One Too Many Words

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One word makes all the difference in the world sometimes.
You can spend hours, even days writing something, trying to capture the moment and get it on the paper or the screen, but you know it’s just not quite right.
It’s missing something. Or, it’s got something in there that just needs snipping off.
That’s the hard part, making a change to something you’ve spent so much time on.
One slip, and the whole piece is ruined, and you have to start over.
You can’t just go back to an earlier draft. It’s just not the same.
Just one word.

Free Samples

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This woman in a chef’s apron was giving out free samples of little sausages in the grocery store.
They were delicious.
“Try the dipping sauce,” said the woman.
And, you know what? They were even better!
I wanted more, so I asked her what brand they were and she said “Oh, they’re toes I collect at the morgue.”
That’s when I noticed the blood on her apron… and on her hands… and in her hair.
I had hardly noticed the little toenails as I chewed the “sausages.”
She grinned, holding the platter up higher.
“So, what dipping sauce is this?”

Files

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I can’t tell you how many times I was told something would go in my permanent file.
I always wondered where they kept those files. And if they bothered to convert all the old records to computer files when hard drives and computers got cheap.
What do they do with those things when people die? Do they burn the paper records and delete the computer files, or do they burn them to a CD or write them to a tape, stacking all the dead records in a box and putting them in a storage room?
Can this be considered immortality?

Dangerous Catch

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We haul in the nets and dump out our catch.
As usual, it’s mostly guitars. Piles and piles of acoustics, with a few electrics here and there.
In the middle of the pile rests one shiny tuba.
Dead or alive, we throw it all back.
“No banjoes,” growls the captain. “Still no banjoes.”
He clomps back into the wheelhouse to light his pipe and scowl for the rest of the trip.
As we prepare the nets for another try, I hear the siren from the Coast Guard.
They’re going to harass us about not having tuba-excluding devices on our nets.

Weekly Challenge #78 – Underpants

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Welcome to the seventy-eighth Weekly Challenge, 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 selected by Elisson.
It’s Underpants
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
VOTING
Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

Who had the best stories in Weekly Challenge #78?
Tom of Footnote
Chris Doelle of Riding With The Window Down
Houston Keys from Tater Tots For The Masses
Elisson from blog d’Elisson
Guy David from Guy David dot com
Paul Snoe NANOWRIMO
Laieanna at Hodgepodge Point
Yxes of Podmafia
Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

WE GOTS PRIZES:
I will be sending the winner a prize… it’s refrigerator magnets for the podcast. Massive amounts of fridge magnets were mailed out in the past week… watch your mail, and let me know if I’ve missed you.
It is your voting that determines who wins. So listen, vote, and tune in next week to find out who won!

TOM

The Podcaster returned to the Styx. Burroughs’ back was to the Podcaster he was humming Going to Dance My Way to Heaven with a New Step Everyday.
“Bill,” whispered the Podcaster. Burroughs spun around he was wearing underpants on his head. “Still got that Apple, Kid?” croaked Burroughs. “No, I got this Banana and I’m not afraid to use it!” sneered the Podcaster pointing his herbal weapon at the literary outlaw.
BLAM went the Banana Burroughs fell over deader. He vanished off to dem pearly gates. The Podcaster aptly peeled the Banana and had a bit of his naked lunch.

CHRIS DOELLE

Johnny walked uncomfortably to the front of the classroom, sort of twisting his midsection with each step. His teacher had called him to read his report to the class. Of all the kids in all the classroom, why did it have to be him? Why did it have to be now? Johnny’s heart pounded. The pain was unbearable. His palms broke into a sweat as heavy as the torrent running down his brow. The teacher shushed his classmates as they tittered at his discomfort. It turns out sneaking an iPod into school in his underpants was a pretty bad idea.

GUY

We used to make edible clothing. I don’t know what went wrong. We had strawberry t-shirts, pineapple shoes and chocolate hats. They went off in the millions, no in the billions. Everyone wanted some. A real shopping rush. Then we came out with something brilliant, a line of tofu pants. Everyone wanted them. At least, so they keep telling me at marketing.
I think it’s the tofu underpants. That’s what killed it, you see, in Israel, underpants are considered legitimate pants. Imagine that: a big, fat, hairy guy, going around with nothing but tofu underpants, in the boiling sun.

HOUSTON

Johnny was uncomfortable as his recent change to thongs had some less than desirable effects.
“This dang butt floss is gonna to be the death of me,” he intoned, but fortunately Johnny had a level head he wasn’t about to panic. He would drive the ladies wild with the smooth view of his gluteus through his Wranglers.
Spying his first conquest Johnny bellied up to the bar (literally).
“Hey there little lady, how about you and me make some beautiful music together.”
With a wry smile she looked him up then down, then up again. “Did you bring your banjo?”

ELISSON

There’s nothing makes me want to dance
Like a brand new pair of Underpants.
The blue-haired ladies look askance
When I show off my Underpants.
They’re free of bees and flies and ants.
They’re insect-free, my Underpants.
I’m hypnotized: I’m in a trance.
Those mesmerizing Underpants!
Averse to risk? Why take a chance?
I wear my Safety Underpants.
Their silken fabric draws one’s glance.
Gaze, gaze upon my Underpants.
Like armored Knight with Battle-Lance,
I’m protected in my Underpants.
I dine on animals and plants,
Take meals in my Underpants.
Residing in my lordly manse.
I wear my lordly Underpants.

PAUL

I hated school. The jocks and the pops all kicked me around.
Yeah, I made grades. I’d have a job while they’ed be mechanics and cashiers.
Worthless if my future couldn’t get me a date.
Then the bionic-nuclear-genetic-engineered-automated-techno spider bit me.
I could toss cars! Stop crooks with a finger. Leap over buildings!
But strike fear into crime? No good.
Hooked up with mega-bust gals and mondo-Chin guys.
Nope. No traction. Still no fame, no glory, no… respect.
They told me what to do and I kept refusing.
Then one day I put on my suit.
Then last.
The underpants.

LAIEANNA

I apologize for not contributing to last week’s challenge. Though an
idea came to me, I lost track of time or lost track of my mind and
didn’t finish before the deadline. This week’s challenge should be
easy, but my imagination has been stuck on dull. I was working on a
story at work, but forgot to take it home on Friday. For new
inspiration, I took a jog around the neighborhood in my underpants.
I’ve since been arrested and no one will take my call. Please send
money. Spring me out.

YXES

Ohmygod! You can’t be serious! You want me to say this word out loud, for everyone to hear? Don’t you realize how embarrassed I will be if you make me do this???? I mean, I can say lots of things, but to say this word is like recounting something out one of my worst nightmares! I would much rather say bloomers, knickers, pantaloons, or even panties. I could even manage to say boxers or briefs! I simply won’t say it! You will just have to get some other poor sap to say Underpants! Ohmygod! I said it! Now I’m mortified!

PLANET Z

Ann Coulter wants to make me perfect.
Right-wing temptress, you’re not going to win this one.
She tries and tries, but I resist.
So, last night, she shows up on my doorstep, wearing nothing but a crucifix and that big crocodile-wide smile of hers.
“The things I can do with this, you wouldn’t believe,” she says.
And she wheels through the photos on her iPod, each image sicker than the last.
She stops.
It’s Al Franken, with his underwear on his head, totally blissed out.
Then I realize: he’s still Jewish.
If he can resist, so can I.

The Drummers

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The ghostly drummers are the spirits of the dead, a parade of the ancestors of this town.
Out of nothing, they appear from an alleyway, their slow steady beat echoes throughout the city.
Uniforms crisp and bright, they march proudly past their modern progeny.
“That is your grandfather,” whispers a mother to her son.
Ba-ba died before he was born, but still, the grandson waves to his grandfather.
The grandfather does not miss a beat, doesn’t look to the waving child.
He just marches on, keeps his place in line, and they all return to the dust of another alleyway.