Not The Same

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The suicide bomber only managed to kill one person when he blew himself up at the sidewalk café: the security guard who kept him from killing more.
The bomber exploded in the guard’s embrace, both dying at the same time.
Both shared something else in common: the same exact type of cell phone. Down to the ringtone.
The guard’s widow got the phone of the bomber, and the bomber’s widow got the phone of the guard.
Neither noticed the difference or ever charged the batteries on the bloody devices. They just sat on memorial shelves, occasionally taken down for dusting.

Skin Book

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Andrew Ian Dodge talks about a book that’s likely not missing from the public library…

A book covered in human skin was recently found in Leeds beside a road. The Police said it was dropped by a thief. Doubt it. I suspect the book was dropped by its owner, who was dabbling in the black arts. As so often happens he thought he could out-run the entity pursuing him. The book was dropped where the eldritch horror caught up with him and sucked him into the void. Could have been worse he could have been turned inside out like Abdul Al Alzared the author of the Necronomicon. Wonder how the Police would’ve explained that away?

Sinking

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Why is Wembley Stadium sinking? Andrew Ian Dodge tells the horrfying truth…

He knew exactly what he had to do when he sensed what was going on. The digging to sure up Wembley was going well. The trouble was he could not allow it go any deeper. A few people were feeling a bit ill over the past two days but Jarl was suffering from intense seething evil. Something living was there, a visceral evil and Jarl had to stop the digging. While inspecting the digging he careful placed small charges all over there. He hit the button; he knew how to make it look like a collapse. Would he die…well…

Nosferatu

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Want to know the truth about Nosferatu?
He wasn’t a vampire. He was just really pissed off.
Imagine, going to the carnival or a gift shop and looking for a personalized mug with your name on it… they have John and Mary and Susan and Joe, and Bob and Kent and…
And no Nosferatu.
If you ask the salesman, he asks you to repeat it. So you have to repeat it. Twice. Pretty soon, you’re shouting it and waving your hands around crazily.
See? That’s how it happens.
Now get me a fucking Laurence mug! Not W, with a U!

Coyote

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It was Paco’s first time crossing the border, and he didn’t want to get caught
His cousins tried the desert route. Those that survived were caught and spent five months in jail, only to be bussed back home.
“Use the coyote,” said his grandmother. “He is a genius at crossing the border.”
Paco found the coyote. He handed him the money, and the coyote handed him a crash helmet.
“What is this for?” asked Paco.
“The catapult,” said coyote. “Our would you prefer the rocket roller-skates?”
Paco shrugged. “Who am I to question genius?”
“Supra-genius,” said the coyote. “Hold tight.”

The Wacky Adventures Of Abraham Lincoln 57

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Abraham Lincoln put down his afternoon sandwich, rubbed his temples, and moaned.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mary Todd. “Is Congress bothering you again?”
Abe nodded. “It’s those thickheaded fools. I cannot make it better known than it already is that I strongly favor colonization.”
“Well, you know what I do when I want you to remember something,” said Mary Todd.
Abe scratched his head. “No, I don’t.”
“You silly goose, I stick a note in your sandwich,” said Mary Todd.
Abe picked up his sandwich, opened it, and read the note inside:
“QUIT EATING THESE DAMN NOTES BEFORE YOU READ THEM!”

Rage Again

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Jim S. the Folderman still hasn’t gotten over his rage.

I’ve never truly been happy.
My mind is a swirl of anger, bitterness, disappointment and hatred. Not for or at a particular person, group of people or even any THING in particular but just an overall permeating, deep RAGE at “stuff.”
Depression forms an almost solid border to hold the rage back and keep it simmering on the back burner. Rarely, the rage pokes its head through but is quickly subdued.
An almost momentary flash of happiness occasionally interrupts this constant emotional battle. Every time, though, an uncontrollable factor breaks the happy-moment and re-heats the rage.
Then, depression sets in.

The Don

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After all these years, you think they’d finally figure it out. But no.
If I had to blame somebody, I’d blame that Cervantes fellow for getting it backwards. But what do you expect from one of these “creative” types? I’m a busy man, and I don’t have the time to explain the intricacies of my profession to every Tomàs, Ricardo, and Hernàndez that comes along.
Especially when that profession is unusual.
Don Quixote is my name. Agricultural architectural restoration is my game.
What do I do?
I restore correct vertical alignment to air-powered size reduction equipment.
Yep. I untilt windmills.

Weekly Challenge #2 – Five Minutes Late

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Welcome to the second 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 is: five minutes late.
You have until midnight on Friday the 28th to email me your story.
It would be preferred that you attach your own recording of the story, but if I have the time I will record and include all of the contributed stories in a single collection, which will be posted next Saturday.
If this takes off and there’s a healthy amount of participation, I may go ahead with my plans to create 100 Words Or Les Nessman 2.0. (With weekly themes instead of daily themes to cut down on burnout and attrition.)
Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.

Midnight came, and midnight went. Time’s up!
There were 8 stories this week. Go ahead and listen to the stories (click on the grammy-o-phone icon there on the left side of this entry) and vote for your favorite:

Who wrote the best story?
Elisson of Blog d’Elisson
Rahel Jaskow of Elms in the Yard
Andrew Ian Dodge of Dogeblogium
Jim S. the Folderman
Jim Thompson of Making Movies
Rona
Beck of Incite
The Mystery Man from Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com


Thanks to everyone for sending in their stories, and I look forward to what you’ve got to write (and say) next week.

Rage

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Jim S. the Folderman experiences white-hot rage…

I’ve known a few moments of momentary satisfaction at a beautiful day or a gorgeous woman. Happy moments like the birth of my children, my wedding day and other things such as that briefly pierce through the shroud of doubt, confusion, melancholoy and… RAGE.
Yes, rage. I know it comes as a deep surprise but I’m a mad motherfucker. Just plain mad at the world. Overall, I’ve learned to live with it and usually, I manage to hold it back long enough to enjoy some happy moments.
Mostly, though, it just embitters me and makes me a jaded, cynical bastard.