Goodnight

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When it was time for me to go to bed, my mother would read to me from the book “Goodnight Moon.”
Even though she read it every night, it was a thrill to hear every word.
When I learned to read, I read along.
One night, when I said “Goodnight Moon,” the moon replied: “Good night.”
“Did you hear that, Mom?” I asked.
“Hear what?” she said.
“The moon was talking to me,” I said. “It said… Goodnight.”
She closed the book, patted me on the head, and left me there in the dark.
Alone.
With the wicked, sinister moon.

Cut Off At The Knees

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Before the accident, I used to swim in the ocean.
Now, I look down, and where I once had knees, I see only ragged stumps.
The doctors say they’ll clean those up a little more for me.
“Where are they?” I asked.
“Gone,” say the doctors.
“What have you done with them?” I asked.
“We have taken them,” say the doctors. “But we will bring you the ashes if you want to be buried with them someday.”
Instead, I will spread them over the ocean.
No sense in making them wait for the rest of me.
Let them be free.

The Ghosts

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I looked around me, and suddenly, it made sense.
“How is it that you can walk through walls while walking on the floor?” I asked one of the ghosts.
The ghost thought for a moment and shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Hah!” I shouted. “You don’t exist!”
“I guess you’re right,” said another ghost. They all nodded in agreement.
The next day, when the doctor asked me how I was doing, I told him that the ghosts didn’t exist.
“Oh, really?” he said.
“Absolutely,” I said. “And they agree with me. So, can I go home now?”
Apparently not.

Let The Chips Fall

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I try not to worry about things. I tend to let the chips fall where they may.
Every now and then, a chip lands on its edge and rolls around the floor a bit.
Sometimes, it rolls under the couch or into a floor vent.
The vacuum will pick up the ones under the couch, but the ones that fall into the vent, you’ve got to pry those up and pull the chips out.
That’s a real pain in the ass.
So, I got bigger chips… ones that were thicker than the slots in the vents.
Solved that problem, right?

Hannibal Rex

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Nobody trusts old Hannibal Rex, and Hannibal Rex doesn’t trust anybody, either.
I’m not sure why. If you ask around, nobody is.
It’s not like you can walk up to him and ask him “Why don’t you trust anybody, Hannibal?”
Because he doesn’t tell anybody to anything.
And he doesn’t let anyone come close enough to ask him.
He grows his own food, makes his own clothes.
Keeps to himself in the woods.
You could try to write him, but he doesn’t read anything people send him.
And he certainly wouldn’t write down his thoughts.
He looks happy, doesn’t he?

Weekly Challenge #64 – Existential Ennui

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Welcome to the sixty-fourth 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 Caleb Bullen from the Black Tie Martini Club: Existential Ennui.
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
SOMETHING NEW
Due to popular demand, I am going to include stories that were sent to me, but without a recording. However, since the midget has left for sunny Coral Gables, Florida, those stories will just be posted in the show notes. You’re more than welcome to vote for them, but they will be ineligible for prizes or topic selection.
I feel that this is a fair balance between the podcast and blog natures of this content.
Feel free to share your thoughts on this decision in the comments, and we might possibly come up with an even better and more fair policy for handling these kinds of situations.
SPECIAL ADDITION
Rich DeSoto/Palmer of Audio Gumshoe, That Tickles, and Open Microphone on Los Arboles in Second Life (Mondays at 6PM) took a parody set of lyrics of mine and turned them into a pretty cool song this week. I’ve tacked it on to the podcast right after Z’s story, and I think you’ll get a kick out of it.
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 of Weekly Challenge #65?
Caleb from Black Tie Martini Club
Tom from Footnote Podcast
Laieanna of HodgePodge Point
Jenny the Bloggess
Guy David from The Sixteenth
Faldwin of 100 Words
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!

CALEB

Nelson Algren sat in his mother’s bar on Division Street in Chicago drinking and pondering Existential Ennui when suddenly Jean Paul Sartre came bursting in through the door six guns a blazing.
“Algren! I’m taking Simone with me and if you try to stop us, you’re a dead man!”
“You’re too late. She’s gone back to the continent with some guitar player or something. Here, let me buy you a drink”
And so Algren and Sartre sat in Phyllis’ Musical Inn on Division drinking and pondering existential ennui while Simone DeBauvior sat somewhere in their existential ennui regretting her divisions.

TOM

The view from the tiny pumphouse on the hill is like one perched on a random cornflake drifting in the center of the milk of a bowl of cereal. The rim of the valley surrounds with its California potato colored hills dotted with frog skin valley oaks. It is a quiet purposeful place with underlining communalism yet tempered with strong personal Existential possibilities. Tonight within these walls there is no solace. The end result of a year of dying has take its toll on the vibrant existential soul. You want Existential Ennui in a word I will call it cancer.

LAIEANNA

God blew more smoke out the crack of his window. Harry hated people
smoking in his car, but this was God. He wasn’t a person exactly and
could you tell him to stop?
“Why not?” God asked. Harry flinched at the mind reading. “You
believe you’re in control of your own life.”
“Well, maybe I’m tired of being in control. Look at this god
damn…sorry…traffic!”
“We’ve been carpooling together for five years and that’s the first
time you apologized.”
Harry just sighed. God smiled, lifted the car, and flew it to work.
“Welcome to the fold, my son.”

JENNY

I remember the first person I killed. Her name was Tifanee…with two
e’s. She made me so miserable in school. Made everyone miserable really.
Bitchy. Bitchy with two e’s. I felt a little bad about it later. Well
not really bad but bad for not feeling bad, you know? And then after that
was Stephen. “It’s not you, baby. It’s me.” Yeah, you and half the
cheerleading squad. Sometimes I wonder why I do this? Why I have to take
out the human trash. Maybe it’s better to forgive. Maybe I’m not the one
who’s supposed to be doling out justice.
But if I don’t…then who will?

GUY

I was just sitting, drinking tea with my good friend Lony, when she turns to me and says:
“Grandma Shunra, I can’t stand this existential ennui. We just spend our life turning people into things, selling them various potions and casting spells on them. There must be more to life than this”.
“Yes”, I said, “That is our life, take it or leave it, it’s not that as bad as you think. You should learn to except it. We do have more then most, you know”.
“But what good is it?” Lony asked, so, I turned her into a frog.

FALDWIN

When I first read the prompt for this weeks challenge my response was, in a word: “Huh?” A quick Google search revealed an article explaining the phenomenon. I would explain it, but I only have 100 words here. If a person finds themselves bored with life because everything is the same, they might, in an effort to cure that boredom, do something exciting and different. But if that person continues to do exciting things he might get bored with excitement. Then he will go back to doing the same thing over and over again and the cycle will begin anew.

Z

Jo says she’ll do you for the cost of weed, but there’s more to it than that.
She’ll want to talk. Sometimes an hour, sometimes more.
Camus, Sartre, Beauvoir – over and over.
Next thing you know, you’re both grinding away under the sheets.
Your mind’s been elsewhere, worthless in all this screwing.
You try to catch up, but she rolls you over. She’s finished.
And you look down – so are you.
Let me tell you: Existential ennui makes lousy foreplay, but I think she gets off on this whole thing.
She puts out, and yet, she keeps it to herself.

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 for next week’s Weekly Challenge will be posted shortly.

Podcast Ready is holding a contest for referrals and signups using their very cool podcatching software.
I’ve been using that software for well over a year, and I absolutely love it. I just pop Ziggy’s chip into my system, let it sync up, and then put the chip back in the phone… no more hassles with downloading podcasts manually.
Want to see me win? Just sign up for PodcastReady using the promotional code CRAP to sign up, or edit your profile to use the promotional code CRAP.
To edit your profile:

  1. Go to PodcastReady
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  5. Click on the OK button.

Isn’t that simple?

Hole In The Moon

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Somebody shot a fuckin hole in the moon.
No, really. Don’t believe me?
Look up there yourself.
It’s right there.
See?
Last night, I looked up, and there it was. A hole in the moon.
It was in all the papers and on television, but nobody knew who shot the hole in the moon or how they did it.
Don’t tell me you don’t see it.
A big hole. In the moon.
You can’t miss it.
What do you mean you don’t see it?
There’s a hole in the moon.
I swear.
And it wasn’t me.
I just saw it.

Kill All The Lawyers

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Doctor Odd’s wealth comes from a series of patents he’s licensed the rights to.
If I told you what devices he invented, you’d be amazed.
You’d also be shocked to know that such easy-to-use devices were blamed by countless fools for causing grievous injuries.
They sued Doctor Odd for millions of dollars.
Doctor Odd responded by inventing one last, simple, incredibly useful invention.
Everyone in the world ended up buying one. In fact, each person born into this world is provided with one now.
Oh, and this invention – it also kills lawyers.
(Which makes it even more useful, I suppose.)

Caps Lock

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I hate it when I accidentally hit the Caps Lock key and everything I type is all caps.
So, I took a butter knife and pried out that key.
I don’t make mistakes like that any more.
I also pried out the Pause key because I never use that one.
I never use Scroll Lock or the keys on the number pad either.
They’re gone, too.
Then I started prying out more keys. Symbols. Numbers. Letters.
Pretty soon, I was left with nothing remaining.
The screen asks me to hit any key to continue.
I’ll just sit here, happily waiting.

No Plan Survives Battle

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Jane, my editor, smiles as she reads my manuscript.
“No plan survives battle,” she says, as she’s said with all my other manuscripts.
The first was a mystery. She turned it into a best-selling cookbook.
My award-winning biography of Simon Bolivar started as a simple romance.
Then came the collection of Dutch poetry, the travel guide to the moon, a guide to Poker…
Everything I give her, she completely changes it… transforms it.
When I read it, it’s still familiar. Like my own writing is trapped within, screaming to be let out.
Bills scream to be paid, too, you know.